


Ascent

by Lairenuriel



Category: Angbang - Fandom, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Tags May Change, Twisted Themes, Vala/maia, Violence, m/m - Freeform, mature themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23181088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lairenuriel/pseuds/Lairenuriel
Summary: Our Story:Mairon has spent his time since his defection organizing Melkor's foundry and elevated himself from smith to Foundry Master with his characteristic ruthless efficiency. Deciding it's time to make his public debut in Melkor's Court, he reconnoiters and suffers an unpleasant revelation.A Maia ascends to power.
Relationships: Melkor/Mairon, Vala/maia - Relationship
Comments: 78
Kudos: 65





	1. Reconnaissance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgause1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dark Moon Rising](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691975) by [Morgause1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/pseuds/Morgause1). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With humble thanks to Morgause1 for permission to reference the scene in Chapter 2 of her work _Dark Moon Rising_ where Mairon meets a certain Huntress and persuades Melkor that He, Himself, must raise a mountain range. Thank you, my dear! As always, you're an inspiration! Much <3<3<3 from a goofy lil <3~~ always!
> 
> Our Story:
> 
> Mairon has spent his time since his defection organizing Melkor's foundry and elevated himself from smith to Foundry Master with his characteristic ruthless efficiency. Deciding it's time to make his public debut in Melkor's Court, he reconnoiters and suffers an unpleasant revelation.

February 13th, 2020 

Ascent

Part One: Reconnaissance

High above Utumno’s nethermost cavern, a lone Maia stood on a rocky outcrop. Mairon, both hands clasped behind his back, spied on Melkor’s Court below. All solemn ceremony, the innumerable throng of horrific and eldritch spirits paraded into the Dark Vala’s throne room. 

The Herald, Langon, led in stately promenade: his every halting step accompanied by the strike of his pike end against the obsidian floor. 

As the chamber packed tight, Mairon noted a myriad of details: every one cross-referenced, collated, and filed for future reference. Little escaped him. 

He noted minuscule shifts as factions skirted one another or mingled in unconscious solidarity. How they all desperately jockeyed toward the elevated throne. 

Six fire-demons, towering columns of soot and banked flame, ringed the cavern. Each Balrog bore a gigantic, black-bladed axe. They stood at full attention, as still as the forge-Maia who observed, unseen, from above. 

The Master had suggested Mairon would benefit from studying Court protocols before he made an official debut. Preoccupied restructuring Utumno’s foundry, it had taken him nearly a season to find this opportunity. 

Now, the foundry ran smoothly enough, on its own, for him to act on Lord Melkor’s suggestion. Clearing a slot in his self-imposed schedule, he’d sought this precipitous edge with a mind to learn more than protocol. 

Mairon was a Maia who believed in meticulous research, and thorough reconnaissance. 

The Lord called this a “balcony” but in truth, it was nothing more than a deep shelf gouged from the black stone—basalt and haematite—and volcanic obsidian which composed the chamber’s soaring walls and flying buttresses. 

Shadow-shrouded vaults above, thousand-foot drop below, Mairon curled bare toes over the very edge. In his search for accurate data, he’d abandoned his boots at the foot of the pitch-black stairwell he’d hiked up—it had felt like days, that ascent—to this hidden vantage point. 

There was no protective barrier but then, a Maia wouldn’t need one. And here, there were only Maiar...Umaiar. A thousand-foot drop might destroy ephemeral flesh but it could never extinguish immortal spirit. 

Mairon imagined the bounce, upon hitting, would be spectacular, as would be the cracks left in the obsidian floor. 

Below, chitinous abominations skirted giant, segmented Annelids, and leather-skinned beasts closed tight beside a pack of mud-trolls. Stone giants avoided amorphous, oozing globs. One giant strayed too close and dissolved when it came into contact with an undulating pseudopod. 

Mairon watched caustic smoke billow and spew; scattering nearby Courtiers clad in more delicate flesh. He clinically identified, _Carbonic acid, highly concentrated_ , and mentally filed an image of the creatures. Their excretions had future potential. 

Mairon’s quick eye, and quicker mind, identified alliances or rivalries amid jostling factions. Fantastical and terrible, indeed, those gathered below represented the strongest or most cunning Maiar who dwelt in Utumno. 

All vying for the best positions close to Melkor’s seat of power. 

Interesting, very interesting. 

Each blow from the Herald’s pike made the obsidian ring. Echoing notes interwove, on discordant waves, into an unsettling melody. Mairon’s back teeth vibrated in his head...never mind how his actual skull felt... 

Across the hall, a pillar of white flame filled the soaring main doors. Lungorthin, Captain of the Guard, took his place of honour directly across from the raised dais and its massive Seat. 

Langon executed a heel-to-toe spin at the base of that dais. The Herald’s pike cracked harder, louder, and he sang, in a resonant voice like a dozen bronze bells, “Hear ye, hear ye! Bow in reverence before He Who Is King Eternal, Lord of Land and Sky, Master of Flame and Ice. All Hail Melkórë! All Hail!” 

Innumerable voices brayed, croaked, or shrieked their adoration. The Court abased themselves. 

_As they should,_ Mairon thought. 

None of these pitiful siblings impressed him...except the fire-demons. The Balrogath did not bow...bend knee...prostrate themselves...but remained at rigid attention. Lungorthin clomped forward a single, long stride and presented his enormous axe, it’s haft clutched in both clawed hands, toward the empty Seat. 

They had discipline, damn them. 

But the Balrogath had been hostile from the moment Mairon set foot on Utumno’s upper battlements. What a pity. All that potential for a mutually beneficial alliance...lost. 

Mairon felt something soft brush his ankle. He looked down to find a large grey rat—twice the size of a normal rodent—standing beside his unshod foot. She, too, stood at the very edge and looked over the Court. 

“Good, you’re here.” He crouched. Voice a mere whisper, Mairon pointed, “All the tentacles, who’s that?” 

The rat chittered. 

“No one important, then?” 

She blew a scornful snort. 

“What about Pincers-and-Mandibles, there,” his finger moved, “someone I should know?” 

Tiny paws flipped a dismissive wave. 

“Who, then?” 

A dark cloud enveloped his companion. It swirled into an opaque column three feet tall then coalesced into an ugly little humanoid creature. Pasty face keen, Rat pointed at one Balrog: half as tall as a small mountain and flickering with bright orange and yellow flames. She crooned and whistled. 

“Second in command of the Guard,” Mairon mused. “What’s he called?” 

A clicking trill. 

“Kosomot,” Mairon tested the sound. She nodded. “Why do you think he’ll be receptive when his Captain and fellows scorn me?” 

Rat hissed. Her long, furless tail rattled against the basalt floor. Over-sized black eyes jerked from the white fire-demon, Lungorthin, to yellow-flamed Kosomot. 

“Rivalry or actual hatred?” 

Rat growled. Her furless tail rattled harder. 

“ _Very_ interesting. I could work with that,” Mairon mused. 

Then his continuously scanning eye caught a disturbing sight...it made him stiffen. Before he could point out that relatively unimpressive figure, among all these monsters and horrors, a roiling, fuligin shadow enveloped the iron throne. 

The black mass swirled into a gigantic sphere. Lightning arced within; ice shards cascaded down the dais stairs. Acidic ozone rose in the air, stinging nose and eye. 

The Court shrieked its praise louder, with an almost desperate vehemence, as Melkor manifested. The figure who’d caught Mairon’s eye pushed and slithered until it claimed a spot just in front of the Vala’s throne. 

Lips twisted and irises hard as yellow sapphires, Mairon studied a long fall of copper hair, sweeping robes embroidered with glinting gold thread-work, and a grandiose, self-important obeisance... 

His pointing finger flicked towards the simplistically humanoid figure. 

Rat’s pointy face snapped that way. She grimaced and chittered. 

“Sarf?” Mairon breathed out, “What kind of name is ‘Sarf’?” scornfully. 

Rat looked up. Her little body closed against his, tight to his thigh, and he followed her, grudgingly frightened, stare. She warbled: a bloodsucker name. 

Mairon stared at the vaulted ceiling above. Dozens of eyes, reflective glints against a deeper dark, looked back. Some blinked, some didn’t, but one set...Mairon discerned an enormous shape...bore steadily down on him. Jet black wings shifted around an equally black body, only their motion made them visible. An elongated, fleshless face, suspended upside down, turned its attention back to where Melkor assembled His elements. 

The Master took His time, crackling and sparking, shooting out gusts of arctic wind and flurries of brilliant, crystalline snowflakes. Never let it be said that Melkor, Firstborn, underestimated the power of showmanship. 

The Court held its collective breath as their Lord leisurely formed flesh to suit His mood. Today, He would be humanoid; mimicking the Children-yet-to-Come. 

Traceries of silver fire zipped and zinged as long arms and powerful legs came into being. For a moment, His face was a blaze of palladium light, and then, with a resounding thump and whoosh, He settled into a seraphically beautiful male body. 

The Vala’s dramatic manifestation commanded Mairon and Rat’s attention. Transfixed, they froze and fell silent. Overawed. The entire Court below also froze. Silence descended like the swift swing of a Balrog’s black axe. 

Melkor, with a flourish of pitch-black robes, sank into His throne. It pinged, popped, and molded itself to support the flesh of the moment. 

Neither Mairon nor Rat noticed that the giant creature who hung above them spread membrane-covered wings. It dropped, rotated, and delicate pellicles caught the warm air currents from below. Claw-tips clicked on basalt as it landed on the ledge. 

Mairon shook off trancelike adoration. Looking down at Rat, he hissed, “A bloodsucker? What’s a blood suck-” 

_Mairon, Smith,_ a silent voice echoed inside both their skulls. 

Rat whipped around. Big black eyes scaled up, up, up, and she _yeeped_ in alarm. Mairon turned and his gaze, too, went up, up, up. 

Launching to his full height, he took a step back from the edge and set a protective calf between his servant and the creature that minced toward them on membranous wings and reverse-jointed legs. 

“Foundry Master,” he corrected. 

_Mairon, Foundry Master_ _,_ the silent voice amended, _You ask what is a bloodsucker. That is_ _us_ _, drinker of red life, and our siblings. We were the first._

Rat hid behind him. 

_Sengu_ _, they call us._

“Well met, Sengu.” He gave a shallow bow. 

_Perhaps. Perhaps not. We shall see._

The enormous bat, its long skull covered with tight black skin, crawled to his side and hung a foxlike face over the lip of their shared ledge. _You ask of_ _Sarf_ _?_ _Sarf_ _is sometimes the Master’s_ _Favoured_ _. In his good fortune, he forgets his siblings._ Tremendous black eyes, without any trace of sclera, flicked a sidelong look. 

Aware of being surreptitiously studied, Mairon chose not to acknowledge the assessing stare. 

_He looks like you now. He did not start so. But then, none of them did._

Mairon froze. _None_ of them? 

Shutting his eyes, Mairon consciously altered both lenses, flattening and thinning them, to discern fine detail over long distance. He adjusted his pupils, widening expansive range, to accommodate low, flickering torchlight. 

When his lids snapped open, the Court below came into dizzying focus. Now, he could pick out the emerald and onyx stones in the Herald’s platinum Chain of Office; define each spiky hair growing off a troll’s massive and misshapen head; he could even see the creases in Melkor’s night-black robes. 

A surge of nausea accompanied the physical shift. False motion sickness. Mairon’s stomach heaved and turned over, but he clamped down on it. More important matters... 

Searching the Court, he picked out one, two, three...five in total...scattered amid the others. Humanoid, all. Tall, male, and muscular. Capped with copper-red hair. Mairon recognized the distinct colour. It was his own. 

One sibling, in particular, drew the Smith’s eye: a twitching, fidgeting, half-crouched figure. Two bands of red broke dark tresses—making him look like some sort of fire skunk. The other Umaiar ran his hands over his hair, changing it all dark before those copper streaks reappeared. Like a banked fire that would not die and continually smoldered back to life. 

_Etuth_ _,_ Sengu’s predator’s eyes, made to spot prey from great heights, needed no adjustment. The towering bat-Umaia easily followed Mairon’s troubled stare. 

Below, Langon Herald half-sang, half-bellowed, “Dread Lord Most Divine, the Captain of Your Guard craves permission to address the throne.” 

“Lungorthin, approach.” Melkor’s lazy reply echoed up from below. 

The Master sprawled in His seat, face half-hidden behind a golden wine goblet, and listened to Lungorthin report on Utumno’s defenses. The Balrog began a long discourse about shoring up certain weak battlements and taking down two vulnerable watchtowers. 

Behind His wine, Melkor stifled a bored yawn. 

Mairon watched Etuth’s increasingly frantic attempts to keep his hair one colour. Both hands repeatedly wiped away the red but those stubborn streaks blossomed anew. Face contorted, muttering aloud, he scrubbed his palms over offending locks only to see the bright copper return. 

He started to rock from side to side. 

Nearby siblings ignored his distress, though a few edged away. 

_Weak_ _Etuth_ _,_ Sengu scorned, _he could not withstand the Master’s_ _Favour_ _._

Melkor, Mairon realized, had...somehow...broken this brother. And he silently decried the inefficiency, the waste, of inflicting so much damage on a potentially useful Umaia. 

Etuth collapsed to his knees, scrubbing madly at his hair, and rocketed forward to smash his forehead against the obsidian floor. Someone kicked him over to stop the noise. Etuth began to claw at his hair, his skull, the ankles of nearby Courtiers... 

The other redheads exhibited less pronounced ticks: twitching eyelids on number two, number three’s head spasmed in a suppressed convulsion, and the fourth could not, absolutely could **not** , stand still but number five... 

Sarf fanned his hair and inched closer to the dais. He shoved another sibling out of a pool of torchlight, claiming the spot, to ensure that simmering locks caught Melkor’s bored eye. 

A grating rasp drew Mairon’s attention down. Rat ground an improbable number of needle-like fangs and glowered at Sarf. Her long tail spasmed against the basalt floor. She hissed and spat. 

Sarf posed a serious threat, she claimed. For a moment, Mairon was puzzled. A threat to what? To her? To himself? He didn’t understand, but then Melkor’s steel-blue eyes settled on Sarf’s display... 

Mairon’s gut twisted. Nausea returned, twice as strong, and rose, bitterly metallic, behind clenched teeth. A frisson tore up his spine and beads of cold sweat broke out on every inch of golden skin. 

Because Lord Melkor smiled. Just a twitch to one side of His Divine lips before He raised His goblet again. Melkor stared at Sarf while Lungorthin expounded. 

The blood-drinker suddenly became coy. He turned his face, avoiding the Master’s lingering eye. Pale features became austere and the vampire’s long body settled into an upright, motionless pose with both hands clasped behind his back. 

Rat snarled, actually snarled, and Marion, who had never observed his own body language, did not understand why Sarf’s proud, and tightly controlled, stance stoked Rat’s ire. 

The giant vampire bat on Mairon’s other side tipped their head and studied him. 

Below, Melkor handed the goblet to His cupbearer. Pushing Himself straighter with one heel, the Vala rapped His fingertips on the throne’s armrest. Fingertips covered by beautiful platinum claw-tips. Mairon’s own hands had made that delicately cruel jewelry. 

Lungorthin blathered on, now about laxity in the guard rotations and how to punish those late to their posts or missing altogether from duty. He fell silent when the Master murmured, “Come,” and crooked a finger in Sarf’s direction. 

“You were saying, Captain? Do go on...” Melkor’s whisper filled the entire room; surged with raw, immeasurable power. 

Lungorthin struggled to restart his tirade. Sarf bowed low and mounted the dais with all the speed long legs would allow. Melkor offered a hand and the vampire kissed it before he sank to his knees at the Master’s left side. The Vala threaded his claws tips through long red hair. 

Mairon, high above, drew a deep, enraged breath. Yellow sapphire eyes flared. He stepped back from the edge. 

Rat, deprived of support, tumbled onto her arse. She flipped onto all fours, as if in her rodent form, and scurried after him as he marched for the tunnel entrance at the back of the deep ledge. 

Mairon braced both hands on each side of the narrow passage. He was too furious to shift his eyes. Would not expend precious time suffering the sight of Melkor’s fingers, adorned with _his_ gift, caressing long, copper locks... 

Groping cold basalt for balance, Mairon descended the claustrophobic stairwell. It led down into endless black. The Foundry Master hissed at Rat, “Bring me the broken one, Etuth. I don’t care how you manage it. Bring him to me before day’s end. You will be well rewarded. _Very_ well rewarded.” 

As he found the first turning, Mairon paused, “No. No, bring me all of them, Rat. _All_ of them. All five.” He clapped a palm over his eyes and summoned the strength of his Will. 

Rat flinched, cheeped, and scurried after Mairon when the Foundry Master finished shifting the interior structure of his eyeballs and speeded the rate of his descent. Four steps at a time now. 

Rat, hopping madly behind, wondered how she’d fulfill such a command... 

Still hovering at the brink of the precipice, Sengu overheard the retreating conversation, one-sided as it was. They sent up an ultrasonic whistle and a new figure dropped, flipping in graceful motion, from overhead. 

Her feet hit the ledge without sound. Moving toward Sengu, she straightened. Haze shimmered around soft black wings; they became arms. Short legs with backward knees lengthened and their joints popped in the opposite direction. The huntress stopped and bowed. 

Sengu turned to look over their shoulder but froze mid-motion. 

Far below, the Master had risen to His feet. So fast, Sarf tumbled to one side, much as Rat had tumbled back from Mairon’s sharp step. Melkor’s face lifted; He scanned the hidden balconies high above. Crimson eyes stopped when they found the giant bat watching Him. 

“Sengu, who bides with thee?” came a sharp, coldly furious demand. 

Sengu’s head snapped around; they gave Melkor their undivided—terrified— attention. 

_Thuringwethil stands behind us, Master-Most-Dread,_ Sengu’s projected thought quavered. 

In one step, the Dark Vala boomed down onto the main floor. Hundreds of Umaiar stampeded back to give Him wide berth. Melkor, glowing with unholy, ultraviolet light, expanded His flesh taller than cowering trolls and giants. 

With thrumming percussion, Melkor grew more gigantically proportioned until His crimson eyes were on a level with Sengu’s petrified gaze. Ignoring both vampires, He scanned the ledge. Traces of residual energy, left in the Foundry Master’s wake, glittered for a spare second. 

Melkor’s silent demands slammed through Sengu and Thuringwethil alike: _How long was he here?_ _When did he leave? What did he see?_

The force sent Thuringwethil tumbling back head over heels. She rolled across the volcanic glass until her back smashed against the wall. Knocked breathless, she lay stunned and gasped, more fish than bat. 

Sengu, a much more powerful Maia, still slid back twenty feet. Their hind claws left deep grooves in the basalt. Spreading pitch-dark wings, pressing their furry chest to the gouged floor, Sengu groveled and squeaked. They could not lie...Melkor would _know_... 

_Too much, Dread Lord, too much. His eyes, they are the keenest we have ever known. He sees_ ** _everything_** _._

“Fuck,” Melkor breathed. 

Releasing the energy that had expanded His flesh, the Vala brought to life a furious storm. A sudden, howling wind ripped across the vaulted ceiling, sending a hundred vampires scattering before it. Lightning sizzled and a thunderclap shook the walls. Freezing rain deluged stunned Courtiers. 

As Melkor shrank, He reached out one sweeping hand. The blow careened Sarf off the throne. He tumbled down the dais stairs. Melkor caught long copper hair and slung the vampire the length of the cavern. 

Sarf hit the far wall and bounced, taking down a fleeing cluster of appalled siblings. Much to their indignation, they cushioned his landing. He burrowed under flailing limbs, seeking invisibility at the bottom of the pile. 

“Begone!” Melkor bellowed. At Sarf, at the entire Court, at everything, “Leave Me!” 

Umaiar of all shapes and sizes scrambled for safety. Even the balrogs. 

“Fuck!” The Dark Vala wrenched His throne off its dais and hurled it after the stragglers. It hit with a metallic scream, cracking the obsidian floor, and lengths of iron flipped, end over end, in every direction. A dozen Umaiar were crushed or speared in an instant. So surprised, they had no time to disengage from dying flesh. 

Melkor stilled. He drew a deep breath. “Not undone, no, not undone.” He gestured at the scattered iron lengths. 

They flew through a residual hailstorm, the last remnant of Melkor’s divine temper tantrum, and _thunked_ back together on the raised dais: responding instantly to the Will of their creator. The throne stood again as if it had never been destroyed. 

Eternal, as its master was eternal. 

Melkor returned to His seat. Slouched sideways, with one elbow on the armrest, Dark Vala rested two fingers across compressed lips and supported His chin with the rest of His curled hand. Platinum claw-tips tapped an ashen cheek. 

Melkor, never one to micro-manage, brooded. “He cannot unChoose. He... _must not..._ unChoose Me.” 

High above, Sengu rushed to Thuringwethil. After sniffing the lesser spirit over, Sengu nudged her. Thuringwethil pushed up the wall. She lowered mental shields: 

_Not hurt, thank you, First and Foremost._

Sengu’s elongated, foxlike head nodded, _Excellent, sister, excellent. Apologies, little one, We did not intend to embroil you. We merely wished to ask, do you think this new one, this Foundry Master, will remember you from the Master’s Council?_

_I think he would. We shared words while the others fell to brawling._

_Tell me again, how he defied the Master and convinced Him that He, Himself, must raise the mountains to keep your old lord and his_ _raiding_ _parties at bay...but not here...let us seek our Roost..._

_At your Service, First and Foremost,_ Thuringwethil bowed her head. She lifted her arms. Dark membranes slithered over lengthening finger bones and webbed out from ‘Wethil’s sides as the lesser Umaiar assumed her preferred hunting body. 

Two bats launched, one after the other, from the ledge. Silent, flitting wings took them up to the very pinnacle of the vaulted ceiling. 

There, hidden by Melkor’s clever architecture, a wide passage opened in the black stone. 

‘Wethil followed Sengu into the lightless tunnel. 

_Sarf_ _, we think, is in deep trouble._ Sengu took no trouble to disguise their pleasure. Sarf had abandoned his Brood, and, as far as the Brood Leader was concerned, earned whatever came his way. _Time will tell, yes?_

Thuringwethil, busily echolocating by her own clicks, flew on without comment. 

Sengu, who flew by sight, knew these tunnels by heart. They had leisure to muse: _We_ _could use an ally in the Court. One who remembers favors and bestows rewards for faithful Service..._

Sengu had noted how Mairon, with his own flesh, protected his verminous servant when he thought Sengu a threat, and how she, that hideous little tidbit, _trusted_ his protection. 

Perhaps he’d even meant his promise of reward...yes, the Brood could certainly use that type of alliance. 

Sengu, with Thuringwethil hard behind, winged straight for the Roost. There was much to discuss. 


	2. A Rat With A Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rat brings her master a meal and a plan...

Part Two: A Rat With A Plan

Rat scurried through the foundry deep in Utumno’s volcanic heart. She balanced a wooden box on her head; both hands occupied by a pewter salver. It bore a hunk of bread, a covered plate, and a flip-top tankard...and one roll of parchment.

She avoided siblings hard at work.

They broke new axe heads, pike tips, and war-hooks from hundreds of casting beds. Others grabbed individual pieces from overflowing heaps to temper harden, then quench, the steel lengths. They ground lethal edge-angles before sending the weapons on to be polished. Each piece would be then be oiled, to prevent rusting, and stored in the Master’s ever-swelling armory.

No one interfered with her.

Once, the foundry had been a crude mess, now it operated like a precisely calibrated machine. Raw ore arrived and a multitude of items poured out. Not just weapons, no, shovel blades, chisels, hoes, hinges, buckles, nails, pins...fine steel needles made especially for her. Her new master always made sure she had plenty.

Rat headed for the space that Mairon had claimed as his own. It was a large cavern, situated directly over the hottest magma chamber. Out of the way enough so no curious, idle sibling might disturb him, but close enough to the foundry’s center so any smith might call for aid when a difficult project required Mairon’s superior skill.

A set of black iron gates, their hinges magically embedded in the rock walls, defined the entrance to Mairon’s personal forge. Early on, continually disappearing tools had necessitated the installation. Mairon made his own, and Melkor’s smiths had been unable to resist pilfering high-quality equipment. Several sharp remonstrations, leaving apprehended thieves with smashed hands, had put a stop to that.

These days, the gates were a cue. If open, any might enter. Closed and locked, they indicated Marion’s absence or his unwillingness to be disturbed.

Right now, they barred entry. But Rat could hear the rushing rip of Mairon’s blast furnace open to the magma below. His Song, a mere murmur, rose and fell: obviously he was involved in an important project.

Rat, immune to the Rule, considered slipping between the iron bars, but, at the last moment, remembered the box balanced on her head. She squeaked.

“Wait,”

Rat waited.

The smell of stew, wafting from the covered plate, made her mouth water and occasionally her eye twitched over the hunk of bread. Mairon’s position drew much better rations than her meager allotment—plain gruel sometimes graced with bits of gristle and rubbery fat—but she knew he’d let her have whatever he didn’t eat. That, too, was worth the wait.

Eventually, he came. Long red hair, in two tight braids, wrapped around his forehead to keep sweat from dripping into his eyes. Plain linen tunic and trousers covered with a heavy leather apron that went down to his knee.

Mairon tucked a set of crucible tongs into a loop at his hip while he approached the lock. Touching his fingertips to the bolt mechanism, he gave a soft, melodic whistle and, when the lock clicked, pushed one gate open just enough for her to slip in.

Holding the tray aloft, she chittered.

Mairon clanged the gate closed behind her. He muttered, “No, no food. I’m not hungry. If that’s all...” Reaching for the gate again.

Rat chirruped

He stopped. “An idea, you say? Let me check my pour while you tell me what you’ve conceived.”

They went into the forge-proper.

Rat slid the pewter tray onto a clear corner of his work table. As she slid the wooden box off her head beside the tray, Mairon cautioned,

“Whatever you do, don’t upset that sealed jar,” he indicated a ceramic vessel on the table, “if I’d done it right, the suspension inside is quite volatile.”

Rat hopped back a nervous step.

Mairon pulled his tongs from his apron loop. Clamping the jar, he lifted it, with calm precision, to a high shelf. His face set when Rat uncovered the deep pewter plate to reveal the stew. “No,” in a pissy voice, “I told you, I’m not hungry.” Tawny eyes scanned the salver, “And what have I said about bringing me ale?” Even pissier.

Rat cheeped. She flipped open the hinged lid and a familiar, comforting aroma rose, on a curl of steam, from the dark liquid inside.

Mairon’s cold expression melted. “Oh, yes, tea, wonderful,” he scooped up the big tankard, “Still hot,” and took a deep draught.

Rat claimed the rolled parchment before she pushed the tray aside. Flattening it on the table, she secured its edges with sample castings. Then she flipped open the wooden box to reveal a selection of quills and powdered inks, a mixing saucer, pounce sifter, penknife, one rectangular bar of crimson wax, and Mairon’s personal seal-stamp.

He blew out a deep breath, “All right,”

Rat, gesturing at the parchment, cheeped, chittered, and warbled.

“Is that the best you can do?” Mairon frowned.

Rat nodded.

“You truly believe this will work?”

Head tipped to one side, she clicked.

“Yes, I would be curious...I’d want to know,” he mused. “Very well. It’s worth a try. Now, what shall we say?” He went to a long mold laying on its side: a wooden box, as long as his thigh, clamped in four places. Traces of smoke rose from the cup-shaped holes punched at both ends and one narrow gas vent in the center.

Giving the wood a series of gentle taps, methodically down three sides, with a tiny hammer, Mairon assessed dull clunks before he checked the bronze plug in the pour hole.

The casting was fresh and vapor, smelling of melted wax and hot metal, curled out the riser cup and the little vent. “Yes, I think that will do.” He ran caressing hands over the wood. Looking around, “Write this, Greetings, Brother, it has come to my attent—”

Rat squealed.

Mairon stopped. “You can’t write? But...you can read...”

Rat shook her head.

“But...”

Rat gave him a wry look. She whistled.

“I do _not_ mutter while I write,” he protested. Then, “Do I, truly? Next, you’ll tell me I snore...”

Rat shook her head again. Then she gave him a wicked grin, displaying an improbable number of needle-like fangs. She cheeped.

“Fine, I mutter. But, really, we must attend this. You must know how to read and write. When the new foundry is habitable, and we move, I shall teach you. The winters, I’m told, are long, and harsh,”

Rat, who’d never been aboveground in her remembered existence, gave him a horrified look.

“It will give us something to do,” Mairon half-smiled. He came to the table and sank onto his tall work-stool. Sipping at the pewter tankard, rewarmed by the touch of his fingertips, he used a metal straight-edge and sharpened graphite rod to methodically divide the parchment into six equal sections.

Rat climbed onto the table. She knew the drill and grabbed a vial of powdered ink and the mixing saucer. Mairon sacrificed a little tea to liquefy the ink, and Rat stirred until the mixture thickened and looked right: a rich, glistening blue-black.

Then, she sprinkled a generous measure of pounce over the parchment: making her master a lovely-smooth writing surface.

As Mairon put the penknife to a quill, he...muttered, “Won’t you join me, please join me, do join me, hmm,” Absent-minded, he swirled one calloused fingertip over the ink saucer. One by one, four uniform black bubbles rose. They floated, as if by their own volition, to the parchment. Each took its station above a divided section.

Mairon dipped his quill in the remaining ink and bent to his task, still muttering, “Greetings, Brother...my attention...do join me...share...we will...our Lord’s best interest...” As he wrote, the ink bubbles snaked out a thread apiece. Black lines curled and swooped in the air, then laid themselves on the blank segments in perfect reproduction of Mairon’s absolutely flawless, beautifully formed handwriting.

Rat pointed at the elegant lines with their artistic loops and curls. She cheeped.

“If you swear to be a diligent student, I can try.”

Rat traced a delicate fingertip above the perfectly proportionate calligraphy. She nodded hard.

“Have you spoken to the kitchens yet?”

Rat tapped the sixth, the last, blank section. He quickly jotted, muttering all the while, “Give...her...all...she...requests...Mairon, Foundry Master.” He waited a full forty seconds before he picked up the parchment, curled it, and, when Rat held out the open pounce pot, poured off the remaining powder.

Taking up the metal straight-edge and a razor knife, Mairon cut the sections free while Rat unwrapped the stick of colored wax. He took it from her. She folded, making elaborate little packets, while he melted the wax with a touch of his breath. Smear, stamp, wait, five times, then she took the sixth piece, gave it a hasty half-crease, and tucked it into the neckline of her simple black frock.

Mairon tore a chunk off the bread, dunked it in his tea, and looked, with solemn discontent, at the tray, “No butter today?”

Rat gave him a sympathetic glance. She shook her head.

“They really must stop killing and eating all the cattle. They’re so difficult to steal. I’m sure I could get them to breed, if only we could get a few up here alive...”

Rat uncovered the deep plate again and pointed out thick, glistening gravy. Mairon tore off another chunk of bread. He gave her the strip of crunchy crust before dipping his morsel in the gravy.

A moment later, “Mmm, pork, lovely,”

She could not coax him into more than a few bites. He pushed the tray at her, “I think someone in the kitchens is reporting my eating habits to...someone else. Last time I accepted a tray not fetched by you: I found a generous measure of quicksilver suspended in my soup. Quite enough to kill this flesh.”

Rat squealed.

“What could you have done about it?” he asked, quite rationally.

Rat scowled and scooped up the sealed missives. She shook one at him.

“Possibly it was Sarf. I have no proof. Possibly one of the others, or all of them, conspiring against me. It could have been the Captain: Lungorthin hates the mere idea of me. Whoever did it, however, underestimates my Rank. It will take more than a dollop of mercury to lay me low. An inconvenience, I grant you,”

Rat listened, without comment, as Mairon murmured on. She learned much during these interludes. He had, she knew, no equal among the other smiths. No equal, of comparable Rank, anywhere in Melkor’s domain, as far as she could tell.

No one with whom to talk.

After picking a few pork chunks from the stew, Rat ripped the nice, crunchy crust off the bread while he, still murmuring, went to test the heat of the bronze in the tall mold. Licking her fingers clean, she put the writing tools back into their box, tidied granules of escaped pounce, and scraped up blobs of dripped wax.

Mairon, on the other side of the cavern, sealed off his blast furnace from the magma that powered it; knocked bits of sprue from his large crucible and tossed them, with metallic tings, into his recycling bin; cleaned his tools and hung them back in their accustomed spots; then he took off his apron and unpinned his braids.

“I’ll need a bath if we’re entertaining this evening.”

Rat realized he actually spoke to her again and turned to him. She bobbed an awkward, squatting sort of curtsy and cheeped.

“Good. Have you chosen an outfit?”

She nodded and chittered.

“No, not the gold silk. Let’s go simple. Make me look nothing much.”

Black lips curled down, and Rat’s dark eyes, already disproportionately large, seemed to double in her pasty face.

“Don’t pout. There’s purpose to it. I know what I’m doing.” He threaded his fingers through stringy, sweat-soaked hair. “I’ll take the writing box back. I want a rest before we undertake this. Socializing exhausts me.” He cast a last glance over his smithy. “It will do. Let’s go.”

He tucked the writing box under one arm. She gathered the wax-sealed missives and tucked them under her chin when she needed both hands for the pewter salver. Mairon made her wait while he double-checked that he had, indeed, finished the last drop of tea.

One gate opened of its own accord as they approached. It closed, bolt snapping, behind them.

She headed towards the cavernous kitchens to be rid of the tray and display the note that gave her free rein to claim the best foodstuffs available. He strode in the opposite direction.


	3. Redheads Break Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meal with redheads during which Mairon gathers information that both puzzles and disturbs...

Part Three: Redheads Break Bread

Early evening and Rat oversaw a small gaggle other Umaiar. She darted, scolding and hissing, between Mairon’s receiving chamber and his private rooms. 

She’d traversed almost a quarter of the fortress: hunting down the red-headed in their various lairs and wrangling a handful of siblings from the common rooms. She hated it, but she needed the spare hands. 

A hastily found and assembled table, complete with six high-backed chairs, now dominated the receiving chamber. A long, narrow serving table with bowls of shave-ice, brought down from above, chilled two bottles of wine and a crystal water carafe. 

Someone had to ready the front chamber while she focused on _him_. 

Barely enough time to draw his bath, oil his hair, and get him dressed. Growling under her breath, she assured that the cloth and tableware were laid right, laid _properly_ , before sup arrived. 

Unaware that one borrowed helper stood in a corner and watched her frantic activity with big, black, admiring eyes. He polished the same spoon over and over, forgetting he did so, while she raced here and there. He particularly liked the way her tail curled when she concentrated... 

The lord emerged, calm and unhurried, amid the bustle. 

Mairon, yellow-sapphire eyes approving, nodded down at Rat, “Very good. It looks...hospitable. Attend me a moment,” nodding back at the bedchamber. The two of them disappeared and the door shut. 

“You must pay no mind to anything I say tonight,” Mairon glided to his dressing table and leaned down to check his appearance in the big oval of polished bronze. “Let events flow as they will,” tucking a stray lock back into the thick mane that flowed, unbound, down to his knees. “Before our guests arrive, brew up my rest-blend. Enough for everyone.” 

Rat frowned and cheeped. 

“Then use it all. Don’t skimp. I want the tea as strong as you can get it.” He smoothed his eyebrows with one forefinger. “We can blend another batch tomorrow.” 

Rat bobbed. She looked over his undyed linen shirt, brown wool jerkin, and matching kilt. Both hands lifted, a sweeping gesture toward his outfit, and she gave a whistling cry of despair. Not a gold clip to hold back his hair, not a ring on his fingers, not a stitch of embroidery to be seen, really, it made her want to bang her head against a wall... 

Mairon looked down at himself. “No, it’s perfect.” he tucked his feet into a pair of serviceable leather slippers. Also brown. Rat moaned aloud. “Go make the tea.” 

She went. 

Just as she finished straining the hot, dark liquid into two pitchers, one of the borrowed siblings poked her head into the back room and clicked: the food had arrived. 

Rat raced out to oversee the laying of the platters: a joint of pork, and two small loaves of most precious bread; sans butter for there was none to be had. Boiled turnip and roasted parsnip—Rat squealed at the servers only to be informed that _all_ the roasted beets had gone to the Master’s table, so nothing to be done there—a large platter of pickled mushrooms; a small gingerbread for sweet; and to finish, hard white cheese and apples, peeled and sliced to hide their wizened age. 

Rat shrilled. 

Mairon poked his head out the bedroom door and glanced at the table. A flick of his fingers, a soft note, and steam stopped mid-rise. He pulled his head back. Rat could hear him murmuring, practicing, “Good evening, or...welcome...yes, welcome... please come in, I’m happy...no, I’m _pleased_ you could join me,” 

Five sets of eyes locked on the table, and little siblings came to drool. They sniffed then exchanged unhappy complaints: Mairon’s spell had not only trapped the heat, it also trapped the scents of roasted pork crackling and fresh-baked bread. 

Rat started an angry tirade, flying at them to drive away prying eyes but...Mairon appeared in the doorway again. 

“Tch!” he scolded, “Honey, not vinegar.” 

Rat stomped for a storage chamber to hiss and sputter to herself when her master emerged from the bedchamber with the sweetmeat casket. 

Mairon opened the box: a beautiful silver filigree creation inset with black diamonds, yellow sapphires, and amethysts. He doled out cubes of marchpane. After the Lesser Umaiar wolfed down the marzipan, he doled out honeyed hazelnuts. “You’ve done well, little siblings, thank you. Run along.” 

He watched them go. Then pivoted to return the precious silver box, a gift from the Master long before he’d defected and full anew every time it opened, to its place of honour on his dressing table. 

Mairon noticed a suspicious lump under one wall tapestry. He crossed over and pulled the thick fabric out several inches. Peering into the gap, he asked, “You didn’t get a sweetie, did you?” 

Frightened black eyes blinked at him. 

“Come out, little brother.” Mairon coaxed. He withdrew a step. 

The lesser spirit sidled from behind the embroidered hanging. He twisted a gold serving spoon in both hands. 

Mairon looked over his shoulder toward the open bedchamber door. Beyond it, Rat neatened and tidied. She wouldn’t be pleased, but... 

“What is your Purpose, little brother? I might have a use for you...” 

The hideous little creature, all messy black hair and pinched face, chittered. He realized he still held the gold spoon, and with a terrified _yeep_ _,_ thrust it forward. “P-p-polish!” Whipping a buffing cloth out of...somewhere... he waved it hard and fast. 

As Mairon reclaimed the spoon, the little creature swiped his cloth over the top of the sweetmeat box. “Polish!” He stretched up on tiptoe to rub at Mairon’s plain steel kilt buckle. 

The Smith’s instincts perked up and took notice. A diligent, enthusiastic polisher... always desirable in a crafter’s household. Mairon turned the gold spoon over in his hand. It was perfectly done. Vague scents of wood ash and white vinegar wafted off the little creature. 

Rat would have a hissy fit... 

“What are you called? Have you ever waited a table?” 

The little brother cheeped. His messy head shook, no. 

“Well met, Vole. I am Mairon, Master of the Foundry. Our sister, Rat, will wait table. You will fetch and carry. Obey her well, and I will find more Purpose for you.” Thinking of The Project he was preparing to undertake...one which must produce the most magnificent work he’d ever accomplished. “Have you ever maintained a suit of armor?” 

An ecstatically fast nod. 

“I think, then, Vole, we shall rub along very well. Take this,” handing down the filigree casket, “to Rat and have her show you its place.” As the little one padded away, “Oh, and don’t forget to take your sweets. One of each; no more.” 

Mairon ignored the high-pitched, despairing moan that rose in his bedchamber. She’d adapt. He went to the wide double doors that led to the hallway and opened them. Stepping out, he sent invisible tendrils of his attention in all directions. 

Two approached from the south, one east, and one west...but no sign of a fifth vibration. 

So far, events remained within postulated parameters. 

Mairon returned to his receiving chamber and closed the doors. He rounded the laid table and tucked the gold spoon into the boiled turnip. Frowning at the haphazard pile, he hummed a soft note and swirled open fingertips over the bowl: the turnip chunks arranged themselves into a precise pyramid. 

Attention shifting to the pickled mushrooms, Mairon hummed again. But this time swirling fingers froze as the dark rounds rearranged themselves into concentric circles. 

“Rat.” When she appeared in the bedchamber doorway, she wouldn’t look at him. “A bowl. All haste, our guests are nearly here. The blue one, with the cover.” 

She disappeared then returned with the requested ceramic bowl. Holding it out, she lifted the lid when he lifted his chin. 

Mairon plucked, one by one, half a dozen rounds from the others, completely ruining the perfect pattern. The other mushrooms rearranged themselves, now into a graceful spiral. 

Rat frowned into the bowl. 

“Death Caps,” absently, “under no circumstances eat them. Their toxin is unaffected by cooking and pickling. A very painful way to lose flesh. This is twice now, isn’t it?” conversationally. 

She crashed the lid down on the offending fungi. 

Vole watched from the bedchamber door. 

Mairon spread his arms over the table, sending out a deep surge, then nodded, “Safe. Oh, Rat, do not dispose of those. Later, I will see if any residual song clings to them,” before he ripped a strip of crunchy crackling off the pork joint and popped it in his mouth. “Mmm. Nice.” 

Three little devices, from strategic spots around the suite, chimed. Tiny bronze bells, all tempered to complementary notes, rang six times. 

Vole twitched and rotated in a circle. 

Rat, on her way around him, snarled a barely civilized word. The tip of her tail quivered, wanting desperately to rattle in threatening rage, but she restrained herself. 

“Yes, I call them ‘clocks’,” Mairon pointed at the brass construction centered on the mantel above the chamber’s fire hearth. “They encourage efficiency, now we are subject to linear time.” The last, melodic notes faded away. Mairon clicked his tongue, “Late, all of them. Shameful.” A flick of his fingers ignited the waiting logs in the hearth. 

Here, away from the magma chambers, stone walls consumed heat, and Mairon did so like to be warm. “Tea, Rat, if you please. Good and hot,” 

She hissed at Vole and skirted her angry way along the edge of the wall until she could slip through another door. 

Mairon noted, with mild pleasure, that little Vole was not easily discouraged. He pattered behind. 

Mairon felt, more than heard, Rat’s exasperated, ultrasonic groan. But when the Vermin emerged, Rat carried one tea pitcher and Vole balanced a tray with six silver cups. He put the tray on the serving table, beside the chilling wine, when she jerked her chin. He also took one of the cups and held it out for her to fill. Glaring at him, she poured the steaming tea then nearly had an apoplectic seizure when Vole, happily, delivered it to Mairon’s hand. 

“Lovely. Thank you.” He drank off half the tea at once. Looking at the table and empty chairs, “Really. This is edging on rude; wouldn’t you agree? 

Rat nodded and scowled. Vole pattered to the doors. He tapped a pointed ear and gestured. Mairon’s quick push of Will confirmed it: someone hovered outside...dithered... 

Vole pushed up on tiptoes and pulled the door latches. Stepping back, the little creature let both heavy panels swing wide. Outstretched hands channeled a tiny surge of will: both doors slowed and came to a stop. 

Vole bowed low and warbled. 

“Of course, I’m expected. This says I am.” 

Twitchy-eyelids stood there, holding out the folded parchment Rat had delivered after hunting him down. She’d made sure to bring names back with her, so Mairon was able to step forward, with a pleasant smile, 

“Brother Nicudru, please, come in.” 

“You say we have the Master’s best interests to discuss...” Not, obdurately **not** , stepping into the suite. 

“Indeed, we do, brother. I’ve had the board laid, so we might break bread and discuss how to best serve our Great Lord. Tea?” Holding up the silver cup. 

Unable-to-Stand-Still and Head-Spasm arrived together. Their arrival forced Nicudru into Mairon’s suite. 

“Welcome, brothers, welcome. I’m so pleased we can meet. Do come in. Rat, tea for our guests.” 

Unable-to-Stand-Still, “W-we c-can't think w-why you...” 

Head-Spasm brushed by, striding into Mairon’s receiving chamber, and said over his shoulder, “Look at all this space, Vurtun, it’s almost as big as the Master’s quarters. Twenty of us could bunk down with room to spare.” 

Nicudru and Vurtun, Unable-to-Stand-Still, flinched and stared at Head-Spasm with horror. 

“Have a care, Drilm,” Nicudru of the Twitching Eyelids cautioned. He lifted one hand and made a vague gesture...reminding them all that Melkor had only to feel Himself mentioned and His attention could focus here. 

“N-not as b-big as...those...chambers, n-no,” Vurtun rocked from foot to foot. 

Mairon realized they not only had red hair, they all had gold-tinged eyes...muddied variations but gold-tinged none-the-less. 

Rat twitched and hissed, softly, at Vole. He gave her a bright look and came forward to reclaim the tea tray. Moving through the room, Vole offered the stemmed silver cups, and Rat, just behind, filled them. 

“Servants. You warrant servants...” Drilm, Head-Spasm, glared at the Vermin. 

“Not officially,” Mairon sipped down the last of his lukewarm tea and glided over to Rat so she could refill his cup, too. Positioning himself, gratefully, before the now roaring fire, “I’ve had no time to attend Court and make a formal petition. I must soon. They’ve become quite indispensable.” The first cup of tea acted fast in his empty stomach and Mairon couldn’t resist, “Do you think, brother,” to Nicudru, “Himself would be amenable to such an arrangement?” With a smile most charming. 

The other Maia’s eyelids quivered, almost frantic involuntarily nerve action, as he stared at Mairon long and hard. “I’m not privy to...what goes on in... _that_...mind.” 

The others, as Mairon swept a look around, avoided his gaze. Drilm, seeking a way out, pretended to notice the laid table and moved toward it. 

“Six,” he noted the chairs and turned a sharp, sarcastic smile back on Mairon, “You invited _Sarf_?” 

“Th-that b-bastard t-tried to p-push me int-to a b-bitumen pit,” Vurtun erupted. 

“He actually tried to drain me dry,” Drilm laughed, “so now I rest only in the were-worm caverns.” 

“Sarf won’t come,” Nicudru sniffed the tea, then stiffened, “Poison? I expected something more subtle. I’m told you’re clever, Brother Foundry-Master,” mockingly. 

Mairon’s eyebrows rose. He lifted his own cup, “Hemp and poppy. Admittedly, it’s a strong batch...Rat, you steeped this far too long; remind me to beat you later...but poison? No, there’s not enough poppy straw to kill...merely relax. You’re not the only one,” to Drilm, “who has trouble resting.” He took a long sip of the steaming liquid. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mairon watched Vole return the tea-tray to the side table, but then, the Vermin did a curious thing...he took the fifth cup and held it out to Rat. Frowning, now puzzled rather than angry, she filled it. 

Vurtun, swaying forward and back, lifted his cup, “Sarf’s t-tried to p-poison me f-four t-times, if we’re c-c-counting. N-nothing so nice as p-poppy,” and took a long gulp. 

Vole carried the cup around the edge of the room and out the open doors. Mairon heard him cheep. 

“No, no, no, no,” a frantic whisper, like the rasp of torn parchment, “no tea,” 

“Ah, here’s Etuth,” Nicudru turned to the noise. 

Drilm barked over his shoulder, “We’re waiting on you, get in here. And take the damned tea, I don’t want to listen to your whimpers through a three-course meal. It’s not often I see food like this. I want to enjoy it.” 

Skunk-striped red and brown hair wild and stringy, Etuth crept to one edge of the doorway. One eye gold, the other blue, he stared at them but came no further. 

Vole, at his side, cheeped and proffered the cup again. 

“Do come in, Etuth,” Mairon glided forward, “I’m pleased you chose to join us. Sup awaits. I hope you’re hungry, ‘tis a lovely pork joint.” 

“Sarf...Sarf isn’t here?” 

Vurtun and Nicudru scoffed aloud. 

“Of course, Sarf isn’t here.” Drilm growled, “Sarf thinks he shits gold, why would he stoop to the likes of us?” 

“I r-resent th-that!” 

“Sarf tried to kill my flesh...not even... _He_...tried to kill my flesh.... _He_... just...hurt...” Etuth’s voice never lifted above that ripped-parchment whisper. 

“If you’d shut your gob and done what you were told,” 

“Drilm,” Nicudru snapped. 

“You lock your teeth into a pillow, pretend you’re one of the Green Bitch’s animals, and wait ‘til He’s done. Then He shoves you to the floor. You thank Him and leave. Next time the raiders or hunters come back with something good, you get a little. I do miss that.” 

Etuth turned several shades of sickly green in rapid succession and his body tensed to bolt. Mairon lifted the teacup from Vole and pressed it into trembling fingers before he caught hold of Etuth’s elbow. 

“No business ‘til after we eat. Etuth, come, sit by me. You haven’t touched your tea. Is it not to your liking? We have wine,” 

“Wine!” Drilm drained his stemmed silver cup and waved it toward Rat, “I’d suck off a troll for a glass of good wine.” 

Etuth and Vurtun stared at him, obviously puzzled. 

“Though I have to admit, Brother Mairon, this tea of yours...it’s got its appeal.” 

“I’d like to see you suck troll cock,” Nicudru snorted, “Just to watch your head come off on the first thrust.” He stopped, “Do trolls have cocks? No, I don’t want to know. Drink your tea, Etuth, it will help. I’m feeling lightheaded, myself.” 

“Vole, please shut the doors.” Mairon used his hold on Etuth’s elbow to steer the other Maia toward the table. “Here, sit on my right. Vurtun, would you care for this seat?” 

Rat cleared the sixth setting, and the Superior Maia shuffled their pewter plates over a wider range. 

“Shall we, brothers?” Mairon assumed his place at the head but did not sit as the others did. “Vole, this blade the kitchens sent: it won’t do. It wouldn’t cut warm butter...if we had any butter...take it away. Rat, fetch my knife roll. Please, brothers, help yourselves.” 

“She’ll serve wine when she gets back?” Drilm pressed. 

Mairon smiled, all honeyed charm, “Of course.” 

“This is quite...civilized of you.” Nicudru helped himself to turnip then parsnip and passed the deep pewter plates around. 

Mairon ripped a wedge off one loaf and deposited bread on Etuth’s plate. After taking a hunk for himself, he served them both mushrooms. 

Rat returned with a thick leather tube over her arm. She presented it. Mairon untied the thongs and unrolled its length. Choosing a carving blade, he nodded at her. She produced a scrap of white cloth, which he used to wipe the blade before she took the leather roll back into his work chambers. 

Vole actually served the wine while Mairon carved the pork joint with surgical precision...if there had been surgeons yet in the world. 

Drilm immediately sniffed the pale gold liquid. Suddenly, he chortled. “It’s...I don’t believe it...you know what this is, don’t you?” Turning to Vurtun, “It’s the Usurper’s favorite white. Right off the Manwë’s own table! Where did you get this?” To Mairon in a curious combination of envy and delight. 

Mairon only knew that Rat had gone down to requisition it from the stock of carefully hoarded luxuries stolen from Almaren. His interest in wine, beyond preserving interesting biological samples, was negligible. 

“One of those good things,” dismissively. He served out the pork then took his seat. Rat brought him the vegetable platters one at a time. 

“I do miss them.” Drilm, to Mairon’s surprise, savored tiny sips of his wine instead of gulping it down. 

“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Nicudru tucked into the pork. 

Etuth, on Mairon’s right, looked at his full plate with a face gone even greener. Mairon put down his fork and slipped his fingers under the tea which Etuth held out before him. 

“Drink.” Pushing up the cup. 

“It t-takes the edge off,” Vurtun nodded. He turned to Drilm, “I k-know we’re supposed to w-wait, but what d-do you mean, ‘suck c-cock'?” 

“Just flipped you on your face, did He? Then you didn’t put in enough effort.” Drilm hacked his pork to small pieces and ate each with a chunk of turnip or parsnip. “I’d rather have it down my throat than plumbing my guts.” 

Etuth, in a convulsive motion, threw back his entire cup of tea. 

“Could we just eat?” Nicudru glowered at Drilm. 

“Could I have more tea, Brother Mairon?” that torn-paper whisper, “No, no-no-no wine...He gave... I can’t... The taste...” 

“Of course,” Mairon lifted a finger and Rat scurried to collect the second, full tea pitcher. “Make sure it’s hot,” so she stopped beside him on her way around the table. Mairon pressed one palm to the ceramic pitcher and steam arose anew. As she refilled Etuth’s cup, Mairon lifted his wine goblet away and set it in the center of the table. “Would you like water, brother?” 

“Clean water? Yes, oh yes,” 

“It’s mineral water, from the springs up in the mountains.” Mairon looked over to Vole. The empty wine goblet meant for Sarf came, brimming with water, to Etuth. 

Mairon decided he liked this dynamic, the two Vermin to the one of him. When he petitioned Lord Melkor, he would act as if it were given that they were a set pair. Like bookends. 

Vurtun ripped a piece of bread from the loaf and daubed it in the pork juice. “I...I’m going to shift. Just for tonight. You all, you won’t tell, will you? 

Mairon blinked; Vurtun’s stammer—gone. 

“I want, I want to be _me_ ,” 

“Can you?” Drilm looked around at Vurtun, “I haven’t been able to. Not even now He’s done with me.” 

Mairon’s surprise, again, showed itself as one slow blink. His smile stayed firmly in place and only Rat knew him well enough to understand the reaction. She brought the tea pitcher. 

“Please, be as comfortable as you can.” Mairon collated all the data he’d picked out of the conversation. And accordingly adjusted his original plan. 

Vurtun opened his mouth and Sang...but the melody that came from his lips... 

Mairon dropped his gaze to his meal. It wasn’t his personal Song...the baselines were wrong...but it was close. Vurtun struggled to change the tune, weaving in slight variations until something completely different flowed out. 

The air shimmered like heat mirage. Vurtun’s body shimmered, too. His hair rippled alternate bands of dark blond and copper-red before it settled. Gold-tan skin became peach-tinged and muddy, golden eyes darkened to cinnamon brown. A last, desperate aria and Vurtun fell silent. 

Collapsing back in his seat, he panted and sipped his wine. “Oh, that was hard.” Vurtun, in his native state, manifested as a very handsome youth with dirty blond hair. 

“If you can, I can, I’ve twice your power,” Nicudru then let go yet another mangled version of Mairon’s personal music. This change was even more dramatic because his skin turned a glistening, red-tinted, dark brown. Long copper hair twisted up in spiral curls and darkened to jet black. Nicudru manifested as an adult male in his prime. 

Drilm grunted, “I’m not going to waste my energy. I always fail. I hope that doesn’t offend any of you,” His eyes twitched to Mairon, “Especially you.” 

“I formed this fana because it felt right. Looking on it certainly won’t offend me.” 

“Good. I’ll keep my effort. Tomorrow, I have to report to the mines with my biggest were-worm.” He gave Mairon a sardonic smirk, “You, I’m told, think there’s a vein of purer iron ore under Mount Manwë-Kiss-My-Ass.” He laughed at the looks this received all around, “That, I’m informed, is what Himself named it. We just call it the Second Peak.” 

“Oh, yes,” Mairon had merely numbered the mountains when he’d been brought a hasty map of the newly raised range. 

“I’m told Himself calls three and four Varda’s Floppy Tits and number seven, you know, the little one, Tulkas’ Cock. But I’m also told he was drunk at the time.” 

“You’re told a great deal,” Nicudru served himself more pork then sent a narrow, suspicious look at Drilm. “And you say He’s done with you?” 

“Sarf brags. Can’t shut his gob. Especially when he’s trying to discorporate you. You would not believe half the shit he said to me when he thought he’d spilled enough blood to weaken me beyond surviving. Slimy-Ass, that’s my oldest worm, felt something amiss and came slithering over to see what was going on. Got a taste of my blood on its front end and went mad. Wish Slimy had crushed him. I’d rest better.” Drilm reached over and picked up Etuth’s abandoned wine-glass. “Shame to let it go to waste.” 

“There’s a conversation stop.” Vurtun looked over, “Do you think, Brother Mairon, we could all have more of that wine?” 

“Vole.” 

Etuth sat slouched down, eyes half-closed, and stared into his empty teacup. He mewled, “I can’t change back. I’ve tried.” 

“Were-worms aren’t really slimy. Soft, but not slimy...unless they’re wet. Then they’re slimy.” 

The tea’s full effect had hit. 

“I have a strange question,” Vurtun, “It’s just...Himself called me two...or maybe it was Thwoo, did he...” 

Mairon froze, all the way to the bone. It took everything he had not to react. Controlling each muscle as if it were totally new, he speared a pickled mushroom and lifted it, with extreme precision, to his lips. Let it hover there. 

“Once, when He was atop me. Otherwise, He didn’t call me anything.” Nicudru. 

“He did call me two, one time I was sucking hard, I thought it was because I came after you,” Drilm looked across the table at Etuth. “You were first, weren’t you? It was so long ago; I have a hard time remembering.” 

“I want to be me again.” Etuth sobbed, “It’s too strong. He Sang it too strong,” 

Mairon let his fork drop, with a clang, to his plate. “Rat, more tea for our brother. All haste.” She flew as fast as she could. “It’s all right, little brother, just sip. It won’t hurt less, but you’ll care less. Rat, keep his cup full.” 

“Aye, Etuth, drink up. I’ll carry you back to the dorm, or you can sleep with me and Slimy-Ass down in the worm pits. Sarf won’t venture down there again.” Drilm added, aside to Mairon, “Etuth’s a cordwainer, a good one; the leatherworkers have an open dorm. He’ll be safer down with me.” 

“I’ll take him with me,” Nicudru, “Sarf won’t come to the dens. The wolves hate him. Maybe they sense that I don’t like him, but the one time he came out: fangs and hackles flashing! Never seen vampire wings work so fast. Near laughed my arse off.” 

“Wolves?” Mairon’s attention skewed around to Nicudru. 

“Since Himself raised the peaks, they can’t migrate south. Great bloody mountain range in the way. First, it was one or two scavenging the dump piles. Then whole packs arrived. We asked ourselves if Oromë hunts with hounds, why can’t we hunt with wolves? Problem is, hounds want to please but wolves...they don’t give a shit. They do what they like. But they’re damned terrifying when they’re annoyed, and they’ll hunt with you...not for you...if you’re fair about splitting the kill. So, I’ve gone from being a hunter to a wolf keeper.” A sudden wary expression, “No one said not to. No orders coming down.” 

“I doubt He even knows what you lot are doing out on the fringes,” Drilm looked over at the side table, “Time for that cake, Brother Mairon?” 

“Of course. Rat, Vole, clear the table.” 

“You should come see the wolves,” Nicudru gave Mairon a drowsy, half-smile, “Fascinating creatures. I could spend centuries watching them. Hard to believe her ladyship, that Green Bitch, created them and not Himself.” 

“Thank you, brother, I should like that very much.” Mairon leaned back so Rat could take his plate. 

Once the empty serving platters and dinner plates had been removed, Rat set the ginger cake down before Mairon. Vole hovered with the small sweet-plates. 

“Ginger,” Etuth sighed, “I like ginger.” 

“Why don’t you rest here, Brother? On my assurance, no one will accost you.” Mairon offered. After serving out thick slices of the heavy little cake, he raised a hand and sang a soft, two-note sequence. 

Iridescent strands glowed to life; a web of consciousness and innate power traced intricate patterns throughout the entire suite. Globes of concentrated energy hung suspended in strategic spots: over doorways, in high or low corners, or tucked to the ceiling. All vibrated with Mairon’s personal song. 

“Rat, trip...” he looked from globe to globe, “that one.” Pointing at a small sphere hung near the bedchamber doors. Rat took a spoon from the empty serving dishes piled on the small table. She flung it, with surprising accuracy, at the little globe. 

Mairon, at the same time, lifted his hand and projected an impenetrable, invisible shield. As the spoon hit, hundreds of barbed razor needles exploded into being; zzzzzith, zzzzing, they embedded themselves in the floor and the walls. 

Two dozen, or more, hung suspended in the air, stopped mid-flight, with their gleaming tips pointed towards the table and its occupants. 

“Fuck!” Drilm. 

“I didn’t even feel them!” Vurtun. 

Nicudru laughed, a short, hard sound that carried more malice than amusement. 

“What?” Etuth, a piece of ginger cake on its way to his mouth, blinked heavy, hazed eyes then focused on the cluster of hovering needles. “Oh.” 

With a clean, ringing chime, the steel barbs cascaded to the carpet and lay harmless. 

Mairon’s fingertips closed. The needles rose from the floor or jerked themselves from tapestried walls. Coming back together, they clicked into an intricate, interlocked shape: a multilayered dodecahedron. 

Mairon gestured like a music conductor: he guided the interlaced polyhedron back to its place on the web. It glistened, wavered, and disappeared. 

With a little sweep of his fingers, Mairon let psychic tripwires fade back into invisibility. “No one surprises me,” softly, without arrogance. 

Nicudru, Vurtun, and Drilm sat frozen. 

Etuth licked crumbs off his fingertips. He slurred, “Clever, brother. Mmm, good cake.” 

Mairon looked at motionless siblings, “I’ll keep him safe tonight. I’d offer for all of you, but I’ve only one bed and one cot. Rat,” Mairon pointed to the twisted length of gold that had once been a very pretty spoon. “I’ll need to recast that. Please put it in the scrap box.” 

With a tremendous grin, brimming with an improbable number of needle-like fangs, Rat picked up the one-time spoon and gave it to Vole. Poor Vole, he looked a bit sick. Dark eyes scanned the ceiling and corners as he crept toward Mairon’s workroom. 

“’ Twas those,” Mairon pointed at Rat. She opened her mouth wide: proudly displaying vicious little teeth, “Which gave me the idea for that particular determent. That one,” Pointing to the now invisible sphere positioned just inside the hallway doors, “releases a cloud of Phosphine. ‘Tis a vapor...a gas. It ignites when exposed to open air. If the explosion does not achieve the desired effect, then the subject will inhale any sinking residual compound. Phosphine is heavy. And highly poisonous.” 

Etuth yawned and slumped down in his seat. 

Mairon gave him a contemplative look. “Yes, leave him with me. Please, eat your sweet while I see to our brother,” pushing back from the table and rising. “Rat, turn down the big bed.” 

She, to her credit, did nothing more than give him _a look_ before opening the bedchamber doors. An enormous fourposter dominated the room. It was raised on an even larger dais. Enshrouding brocade drapes stopped at the dais but did not reach the carpeted floor. All the better to keep heat once the fires burned out. 

Drilm, head turned and shamelessly looking, let go a rush of breath. 

“Ridiculous, for a single occupant,” Mairon nodded. “But it was here when I was assigned these quarters. I built myself something far more efficient.” 

Mairon bent over Etuth and gently shook his shoulder, unaware that Drim, Vurtun, and Nicudru exchanged disbelieving glances. 

“Come along, brother. We’ve a safe place for you to rest.” Mairon looped an arm around Etuth, scooped him from his seat, and all-but carried him from the room. 

“That bed...big enough....” Vurtun whispered, “for _Himself_ ,” 

“Our brother really has no idea,” Drilm muttered, “do we tell him?” 

“Let me think a moment,” Nicudru shook his head, “Damn his tea.” 

They craned their necks to watch Mairon and his little servants remove Etuth’s boots and outer clothing. 

“Vole, stay with our brother. If he wakes, fetch him whatever he requires.” Mairon bid before he returned to the receiving chamber. Rat, pattering behind, pulled one door fully closed behind her but left the other open a crack. 

At the last moment, she poked her upper body back through. She clicked and chattered, shaking one furious finger, at Vole. When he gave her a big grin, she deflated. What could one do with such a sibling? 

Mairon pushed aside his own cake and brought the cheese and apple tray to the table. Shaving off several slices of hard, white cheese, and claiming a few pieces of age-wrinkled fruit, he sat again. 

“Why, exactly, are we here?” Nicudru made a concerted effort to shake off the tea’s soporific effect. 

Mairon, on the other hand, was just beginning to let go. Allow the extra-strong brew to interact, completely, with his body chemistry. He gave Nicudru a smile that grew sharper, more dangerous. 

“You meant to murder us all,” Drilm exclaimed, _thunking_ his wine goblet on the table. 

“No,” Mairon gave a silent laugh, “only ascertain if I must. Any Maia who does not respond to a call for their Vala’s best interest should be slain. Quickly. But you came, because you were curious. You wanted to see me. I would, too. Do have more wine. We’ve the better part of the second bottle left. If I send it back, the kitchen staff will drink it. I’m rather annoyed with them tonight. They may not have my leftover wine.” 

Little Rat, needing no other cue, took the second bottle and circled the dining table; pouring out. 

“You’re going to murder Sarf,” Drilm chortled, “because he refused your invitation. Never mind that he’s a vampire and doesn’t eat...food.” 

“No.” Mairon laid a piece of cheese on a slice of apple and nibbled. “I’m going to deprive Sarf of his flesh because he does not have Himself’s best interests at heart. That, brothers, is treason.” 

After a short silence, Nicudru agreed, “So it is. Need help?” 

Vurtun and Drilm in chorus, “I’ll help!” 

“Lovely,” Mairon sang, “very kind. I believe I can manage, but...if I should...I will send word.” Looking down at Rat as she stopped beside his chair, “Let me have a mouthful of that wine, little sister, it goes well with cheese and apple.” Picking up his unused wineglass and holding it out for her. “Even if the fruit is half mummified.” 

Nicudru shot a significant look around at Drilm and Vurtun, “May I be so bold to ask, Brother Mairon, what do you think _Himself_...wants from you?” 

“I am commanded to equip our forces for war. To fill the armory overflowing. It is coming. The Lesser Powers will not acknowledge Himself’s Sovereignty. His Right, as Firstborn, to Rule. But in the _larger_ sense...He wants what all Valar want: submission. To their Will, their Purpose.” Cynically. “Our Lord is simply more honest about it.” Mairon took another bite of apple and cheese then chased it with a tiny sip of Manwë’s favorite vintage. 

“And that’s all you think He desires of you?” Drilm probed, with a lack of tact that made Nicudru huff and roll his eyes. 

“What else can there be? I’m a forge-Maia.” 

“You haven’t attended Court,” Vurtun leaned toward Mairon, “Have you?” 

“No time.” Mairon lied. 

“Then you missed a spectacle.” Vurtun obviously couldn’t wait to tell all and spilled into a quick version of today’s events. “Sarf fell from Favour hard and fast. He won’t stand long for it, I warn you.” 

“That would explain the Death Caps in our mushrooms this evening.” Mairon nodded thoughtfully. “And fear of it would explain the quicksilver in my soup last week.” At the surprised looks, “I did mention my annoyance with the kitchens. I intend to deal with them. Soon.” 

“I’d like to see that.” Drilm reached over and took Mairon’s abandoned slice of ginger cake. 

“You’ll be busy.” Mairon put together a second slice of cheese and apple, “If I can find a reliable witness, I shall capture their vision for you. Would anyone else like more cake? I’m not inclined to send that back, either. Or perhaps we should save it for our Brother Etuth when he wakes...” 

“I’ll take the pig bones for the wolves, there’s still plenty of meat and marrow,” Nicudru grinned. 

“Why, brother,” Mairon gave Drilm a puzzled little frown, “do you call your were-worm Slimy-Ass when it is not slimy nor does it have an...ass?” Then to Nicudru, “Do you name the wolves?” 

“Term of affection,” Drilm toasted Mairon, “Slimy-Ass is my big old murder-baby. It can crush a pack of trolls and never know it. Just keep on slithering... That was damn fun to watch.” 

“Wolves have their own names. We just adapt them to the spoken tongue. Renaming them would be disrespectful. And you should _never_ disrespect a wolf. It’ll bite off your hand.” 

“Wonderful,” Mairon breathed. 

The clock bells had rung, unheeded over the course of the meal, but now they chimed ten. Drilm drained his wineglass, cut himself a hunk off the cheese and claimed a bread heel, “Must go, brothers, long, dirty day ahead.” Wrapping his prize in one of Mairon’s fine linen serviettes. Drilm shoved back his chair and rose, “Come down anytime you like, Brother Foundry Master. Have a look at your miners, hey?” 

“I’ll clear a slot in my schedule.” Mairon stood, too. He glanced across the remains of their meal, “Vurtun, is there nothing you would take away with you? Cheese? The rest of the bread?” 

“If you’re adamant about not leaving any pickings for the kitchen,” Vurtun grabbed up the last of the bread and cheese, “Fast-break. I’m a cartographer.” He stopped. “I should really...change back...before I leave.” 

Nicudru, who’d been assessing how to get the rest of the pork joint away with him, stopped. His shoulders fell and, for a moment, dark brown eyes sank closed. “Yes, so should I.” 

“Rat, fetch a bit of oilcloth.” Mairon turned to find her glowering from a corner. Watching all the good bits leave their suite thrilled her not at all. As their eyes met, Mairon mouthed, “Honey.” 

Rat wiped the vinegar expression off her face, bobbed her awkward squat of a curtsy, and padded away a workroom. A moment later, she returned with a square of linseed oil infused linen. She went to the meat platter abandoned on the side table, and after sneakily tearing off a section of meat, wrapped the remains. 

Drilm took his leave while Vurtun and Nicudru summoned their energy to revert back into the forms that Melkor had forced upon them. Eyes averted, Drilm paused with Mairon as Rat opened a hallway door. 

“You should know...a full armory...that’s not all _He_ wants with you,” 

Mairon’s head tipped to one side. A tiny frown played between auburn eyebrows. 

“You don’t understand, brother,” Drilm whispered, “We were _practice_. He was _waiting._ ” 

Soft notes rung in the air behind them. Mairon, recognizing two bastardized versions of his personal melody, turned to glance at Vurtun and Nicudru as they shifted their flesh. 

Drilm slipped out the open door and was gone. 

Neither Vurtun or Nicudru introduced this puzzling subject before they departed. And Mairon was left to study the concept as best he could in their wake. Slowly, thoughtfully, he moved to the side table and took his dinner plate, half full of pork and bread crusts, over to Rat. He’d eaten all the vegetables, but knew she wouldn’t care. 

“You needn’t steal meat,” he scolded, “I remembered,” as he passed her the plate. 

She grabbed the sneakily pilfered chunk, added it to the plate, and twitched her chin at the bedchamber doors. 

Understanding flitted across Mairon’s face, “Quite right. There are two of you now. I’ve had too much poppy-hemp tea, but, Lord’s Dark, I needed it.” He noted her abrupt change of attitude towards Vole with silent approval: clever, steady Rat, she rarely disappointed. “Let’s check on our brothers, shall we? Then, bring me the blue bowl before you settle down to eat, hmm?” 

Together they went to find Etuth flat on his back, both arms stretched wide, and Vole sitting vigil, supported by one fourposter, at the foot of the bed. 

Vole cheeped and hopped down. He bowed to Mairon, almost as awkward as Rat’s curtsy, then gave her a bright, wide-eyed stare. 

She sputtered and rolled her eyes. 

Mairon bit the inside of his cheeks for a moment to keep down a chuckle. “Sup, little brother.” 

Vole’s large, surprised eyes jerked back to Mairon. 

“I want you fit and ready for anything I require. That means no alcohol; no dabbling in my apothecary boxes; adequate fuel and rest; and clothes worthy to carry my messages. I must make you both something with my signet on it.” 

Rat, who’d been setting the pewter plate on the carpet, looked up at him and chittered. 

“I don’t think we need worry. But certainly, we won’t wear them out and about until Himself has given leave. I shall attend the next Court Session.” Mairon kicked off his leather slippers and shunted them aside with one foot, “I suspect it will be soon, things going as they did today. Do we have an appropriate ensemble?” 

Rat warbled. 

“Not the gold. The white. Is it ready?” 

She nodded. 

“Then I’ll wear it. Where did you put those Death Caps? I want them.” Rat raced out of the room and returned in a flash with the blue ceramic bowl. 

Mairon took it and retreated to an oversized armchair by the fireplace. It was too big for him, his feet dangled like a lesser spirit’s, but it was lovely-warm beside the blazing hearth. Perfect to curl up and bask. 

Lifting the bowl lid, he ignored the Vermin as they attacked his abandoned plate. Four attempts to get Rat to use utensils had failed and, watching Vole eat the same way, Mairon decided it simply wasn’t in their Nature. They were, at their core, Vermin. It was enough they used their hands. 

Mairon lifted the bowl lid and studied the mushrooms inside. First, he tried a little string of notes but the fungi refused it. Another partial melody. The Death Caps still stubbornly refused to give up their residual psychic energy. Third, fourth, and fifth melodies produced interesting flickers. Mairon shifted octaves and melodies until a wisp of energy uncurled, and took a shadowy shape like a tiny, animated statuette. 

He sang it clear: 

A burly bull of a Maia who manifested with two sets of arms and four shoulder joints. The figure looked like it had swallowed an ox yoke. 

Rat, chin shiny with pork grease, happened to look over. She blinked. Pointed and creeled. 

“Mok, who runs the kitchens, eh?” 

Rat spat. 

“A right bastard? No mind. I’ll show him what a proper bastard is,” Mairon wrapped the image in strands of song and tucked it neatly into the bowl before clicking down the lid. 

The Vermin finished their simple meal and Rat licked her fingers clean. When Vole leaned over and tried to lick her face for her, Rat hopped to her feet and scrubbed the offended area with her frock sleeve. Wagging her finger in his face, she hissed, “Ch-ch-ch,” in warning. Her long, naked tail rattled but against the carpet it was soundless and lacked good threat. 

Vole gawked at her in unconcealed delight. 

Crestfallen, Rat scooped up the empty plate and plodded away to the receiving chamber. 

Mairon, settling back with the bowl cradled in his lap, murmured, “Really, act a little afeared. She’s fought for everything she has. It’s important to her that she’s perceived as fierce.” 

He knew very well how she felt. 

Vole scrubbed his chin on his sleeve. Crouched on the floor, he whistled. 

Drowsily, “She stood off Tevildo once? Tevildo the Black? Tevildo-itty-bitty-shitty-kitty?” Mairon gave a sleepy smile, “I should like to have seen that.” 

Vole crooned. It had been magnificent. 

“Tell her not to fuss. Tell her, just a nap,” Mairon yawned and his eyes fluttered closed. Then back open. Finally, closed for good. His head tipped against one chair wing. 

The clocks chimed eleven bells but Mairon stirred not at all. 

Rat came back and, seeing him thus, immediately fell to fussing. When Vole told her what their master had said, she stomped over to one of four doorways. Throwing it open, she pointed across what was obviously a workroom—walls covered in schematics and notes, half-conceived models scattered around—to a long, narrow cot tucked beside the fireplace. 

That was where Mairon was supposed to be. She’d heaped it with the best pillows and throw blankets in an attempt to aggrandize its simplicity. He usually tossed aside everything but one of each. Still...she tried. 

Vole gave her a sympathetic croon. 

Rat decided that was all right. She collected a bit of sewing and settled down at Mairon’s feet. Vole returned to the bed but followed Rat’s instructions to close the drapes before he slithered under the heavy brocade and resumed his vigil. 


	4. A Late Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the redheads depart, a bloodsucker comes calling...

Part Four: A Late Visitor

All was silent until twelve bells heralded midnight. Rat curled up against Mairon’s calf and began to drowse, herself. 

Two snores, one deep and one a faint rasp, chased each other inside the confines of the big bed. Sometimes alternating in a kind of continual snore. 

The fires burnt low, the chambers cooled, and the bells struck the first hour of a new day. 

Rat came awake sensing something amiss. She put aside her sewing, leaving it safe under the big armchair, and crawled across the carpet. Little ears detected a subsonic thrum from Mairon’s receiving chamber. 

Rat slithered to the partially open door and peeked, with one eye, into the outer room. The fire was just a dim orange glow, and she’d long ago sung down the bioluminescent crystal globes Mairon preferred over guttering torches. 

But she could just make out tendrils of smoke...or shadow...pouring through both keyholes on the main doors. More wisped through the door join and streamed up from the tiny gap at the floor. They flowed into the room and spun into a silent cyclone. Its dark music began. Will and energy gathered coherence. 

Rat realized that whatever it was, and she had a horrible suspicion, manifested too far into the chamber to trigger the door-trap. Pulling back, she launched on all fours across the carpet. 

Mairon woke to Rat shaking his knee. She hopped up and down, pointing at the front room. Her lips opened but no sound issued forth. Instead, Rat framed her mouth with both hands and extended her forefingers down like long, curling fangs. Then she pointed again. 

Mairon thrust the bowl of Death Caps at her and uncurled. Rat took it, clamping the lid in place, and darted into the workroom beyond. 

After Mairon rose, slow and silent, she returned with a long wooden dowel and one of his smaller hammers. No time to sharpen the dull-edged dowel... but... She thrust the tools up at him, then used both hands to frame her chest. Right above her heart. Lifting one hand, she made a stabbing gesture. Her other hand swung about, mimicking a hammer strike. 

Mairon nodded. Hammer lifted high, dowel out before him, he slipped, silent on bare feet, over to the doorway and positioned himself off to one side. 

The whisper of Song in the front room grew no louder, but it gained complexity. Became full and round with finishing notes. Then it stopped. 

So acute were their heightened senses, they actually heard light footfalls crush the carpet fibers.

He jerked his chin toward the workroom door, indicating Rat should hide. She shook her head and raised a plain little wooden box. Crouching, she opened the lid. 

Mairon had no time to understand. 

The door beside him opened. A dark head pushed through, then stopped. 

Mairon thought a blow to that head would be a fine start, and swung his hammer high, then he realized...black hair, and too short to be Sarf... 

“...lord?” The voice was light and soft: female, “...Lord Mairon?” 

It was the first time he’d ever been called _that._ It gave him pause. Staring at her profile...he realized she looked familiar. Memory niggled but would not be pinned to a time or place. 

Rat, aghast at his hesitation, heaved up her little box. Hundreds of tiny seeds showered forth and scattered across the carpet. 

Their guest's black eyes popped wide. "Nooo," she hissed with rage, "you little bitch!” 

Then she fell to her knees and started scooping the seeds into her hands by the dozens. Counting hard, she raced through numbers, scaling higher and higher, until suddenly, “Ouch!” she dropped them all. Mairon caught sight of a silver steel needle buried in her forefinger. 

Oh, how Rat laughed! Without a sound, rocking on her heels, Rat pointed and laughed. 

Their vampiric visitor bit the needle, yanked it from her flesh, and spat it across the carpet. She sucked the drop of bright gold-red blood that welled forth, then, “I’ll drain you dry,” the female vampire gritted at Rat, “as soon as I’m done,” 

“I know you.” Mairon stood with hammer and dowel poised. 

The bloodsucker twisted up. She gaped, her lips a silent “o” which prominently displayed long, pearly incisors, up at him. “Lord Mairon, please, just a moment...” she whipped around to glare at Rat, “Is there another needle hidden here, you wretched beast?” Back to Mairon, “I must finish counting, lord, forgive me...I cannot...’tis our Nature...” 

In reply, Rat stuck out her tiny black tongue. 

A rapid, quiet clicking came from the bed. Vole had thrust his head out from between the curtains to see what transpired. He laughed too hard for any other reaction. 

Mairon scanned the glistening seeds scattered over his carpet. “One thousand, seven-hundred forty-two. And one more needle. There.” He pointed with the dowel. 

The vampire sighed in relief. She bowed forward until her forehead touched the carpet. “Thank you, lord,” whispered out from under a long fall of jet-black hair, “thank you.” 

In the bed, Etuth stirred and gave an incoherent mutter. Vole pulled himself back behind the brocade. He sang a lullaby; humming softly behind rippling draperies. The quiet noises died away. 

Mairon tapped his dowel, lightly, against the vampire's bent back. When she looked up at him, a sweeping gesture indicated the Receiving Chamber. Still on her knees, she scooted backward through the door. Mairon stepped out and pulled it mostly shut; aware that Rat would bring her pointy little ears over to eavesdrop as fast as she could. 

“How do I know you, sister?” Mairon walked halfway around the kneeling vampire. Studying her as she shuffled around. 

“We met at the Master’s council...I was there because I once served the Hunter... the others fell to blows. Langon Herald threw Ashe Arms Master over the ledge, and you... you...persuaded the Master that He, Himself, must raise the new mountains...you recall this, lord? You know Thuringwethil now?” 

“Ah.” Mairon nodded. He discarded both hammer and dowel on a nearby sideboard. “Yes, of course, Sister Thuringwethil. Well met...late met,” looking at the clock over the mantel, but it was too dark to make out the time. 

Inside the bedchamber, Rat whispered over the seeds. They danced back into the little box when she held its open face beside the carpet nap. Not one escaped. After reclaiming her needles, Rat rose to her feet, scowled into the box, and headed deeper into the suite. 

In the furthest chamber, in a far corner, there was a wooden trestle and under it, a nest of sorts. Next to this construction of old, shredded cloth woven around broken bits of furniture, sat an open bin full of pilfered seeds. Rat scooped more of her stash into the wooden box. Then she pattered to a standing sewing box and grabbed a pincushion bristling with needles and pins. 

Pulling out a handful, she dropped them in with the seeds. Rat closed the lid and gave the box a good shake. Then, determined little creature, she headed right out to eavesdrop. 

She had an idea where this might lead, and it was best to be prepared. 

Thuringwethil sat back on her heels and looked up at Mairon. Her flesh, like her fangs, glowed pearlescent. More colourless than even Rat and Vole’s little faces. 

She was, in her way, exceedingly lovely...as luminescent as the moon yet to rise. 

“Our Brood leader, Sengu, begs you attend them...they say, ‘The Foundry Master left too early...he **must** know what occurred today.’ Will you come, lord?” 

“Now?” Mairon let go a soft note and the crystal glow-globes emitted waves of pale-yellow light. As he looked at the mantel clock, it struck two bells. 

“Right now, lord. Of all, we hold the strongest affinity with the dark. This is our time: when we are strongest. Sengu has summoned the whole Brood. They, we—all of us—beg your indulgence.” 

An ultrasonic negative whispered through the cracked door: Rat cried trap 

Thuringwethil let go a matching noise, basically, “Piss off!” 

“Sisters,” Mairon held up a hand. 

Rat poked her head into view. Thuringwethil hissed at her, and Rat hissed right back. The Vermin added something rude and chattered. 

“He _can_ trust us,” Thuringwethil growled, then up to Mairon, “My lord, you _can_ trust us!” 

Rat scorned the suggestion. 

“Upon my very flesh, lord, you may trust us.” Thuringwethil bent her face to the carpet, “If I lie, ‘tis yours to do with as you please.” 

Mairon sang a deep note, “Done.” and a binding wove itself between them. 

Thuringwethil gasped, shocked at the sudden strength and power of the Forge Master’s Will wrapped around her. Her head turned and she stared up at him with one eye. “...great lord...” she whispered. 

Mairon, already thinking, missed this. He ordered Rat, “Shoes, and a coat, or jacket, please, little sister.” 

Rat gave him a look of such despair...then went. 

He followed her into the bedroom. She brought boots and, as she laced him into them, wheedled to attend him to the bloodsuckers’ Roost. 

“I think it best you stay here.” 

Vole poked his face out and watched as Rat brought their master a quilted silk jacket faced in plain brown leather. Mairon buttoned it right to his throat. Then he moved to a corner of the chamber and reached up. 

For a moment, a ball of energy glittered like a silver soap bubble. Mairon plucked it from its supporting strand. He rolled it in his palm then up over the tips of his fingers until it rested on the back of his hand. The silver glow faded, and Mairon turned to the door. 

He gave Rat a hint of a smile before he left. 

She threw both arms into the air, almost sobbing, and collapsed onto the carpet. What if he never returned? What if he returned utterly diminished? A mere shade without flesh; the repercussions did not bear contemplation... 

Vole clicked at her. 

Rat, in her anguish, had forgotten all about him. She abruptly sat up and blinked at Vole. An epiphany washed over her ugly little features. Hopping to her feet, she raced to him, and, pushing up on her toes, grabbed Vole by the neckline of his plain tunic. 

He tumbled halfway down the edge of the bed, both eyebrows shooting up, as she hauled on him. Nose to nose, Rat whispered and clicked, gesticulating at the oversized armchair beside the fireplace. Vole’s already pasty face went ashen and terrified black eyes flicked between Rat’s intense face and the offending seat. 

Rat released him. He hooked his claws in the drapes to keep from crashing, face first, onto the dais. Rat wagged a vehement forefinger before his pointed nose. Vole creeled with terror but gave a jerky nod. 

Rat launched from dais to carpet where she’d left her wooden box full of needles and seeds. Scooping it up on her way, she flew through the suite, cursing like a troll-wrangler when she came to the main doors, and let one heavy panel bang shut behind her arse. 

Vole, meanwhile, sat on the foot of the bed. Hunched over, holding his toes in a death-grip, he stared at the huge armchair and rocked back and forth, trying not to moan aloud. 

But...she’d said it wasn’t always, just sometimes, and maybe, hopefully, it wouldn’t be tonight... 

Vole stopped rocking. Maybe it wouldn’t be tonight... 

Mairon’s guide transformed into her bat form the moment they left his quarters, but when she saw he remained as he was, she had to content herself with crawling, upside down, above him on the corridor ceiling. 

Patches of fungi on the moist rock walls emitted pale green light. They brightened as Lord Mairon strode by, feeding off his residual heat and energy, then dulled in his wake. 

The vampire could not conceive why he chose to walk, but...he outranked her, considerably, and Thuringwethil knew better than to question a Superior spirit...even before she’d defected from Oromë. What had been more of a guideline, amid her previous Lord’s Maiar, was an unbreakable stricture here in Utumno. Melkor valued Rank, and woe to whoever broke His rigid chain of command. 

But, Dark Lord’s balls, it was going to take _forever_ to reach the Roosting caverns. 

And she found their path impeded by obstacles that never registered on a mindset accustomed to wings. 

Especially when they stopped just outside a pitch-black cavern. No glowing fungi here. An abyss extended before them. It went from wall to wall and stretched from this tunnel entrance to the other on the far side. 

Mairon stood at the edge and looked down...there was nothing to see. Only an endless chasm without a single glimmer of light. 

“Well,” the Foundry Master mused aloud, “this won’t do.” 

Thuringwethil dropped to the floor beside him. Her kind simply flew over the vast pit, and she’d forgotten its existence. ‘Wethil realized, with consternation, that the Foundry Master would find this a nigh impossible impediment. 

Oversized, nocturnal eyes saw Mairon plain as day, but even they could not penetrate the seamless dark in the abyss. Hypersensitive ears picked up faint sounds; an intermittent slither and occasional, sticky sort of squelch, from far below. _Very_ far below. 

“Lord,” 

“A moment, little sister,” 

“Of course, lord,” 

Mairon drew a deep breath. Tawny eyes closed but the power within shown through thin eyelids like a flickering yellow flame. Blue and white sparks danced around him. 

Thuringwethil shuffled away. Hot wind whipped at her wings, making their membranes vibrate, and flecks of dying fire sizzled when they touched her downy black fur. 

Mairon popped and pinged. A pair of wings, seemingly made of gold metallic leaves, lifted off his back and his torso bent forward. Every aspect became streamline, and his legs fused together.

Snap! Rudder blades fanned from his calves.

He kept his arms, despite their drag-factor. When he spread those vast wings, sparks dripped from their edges. One massive downstroke and he launched off the edge. The burst of sparks left the vampire momentarily blind. 

Thuringwethil hurried to adjust her vision. Her heart nearly burst in her chest when she saw him plummet. She plunged after him, unsure what she could do...only sure that the Dread Dark Vala would rip off her wings and roast her flesh if Lord Mairon came to harm under her Watch. 

No official word, no public display of Favour, but she dare not ignore circulating rumor...and the very obvious fact that the Master left Lord Mairon to do as he liked with the entire foundry. 

Another powerful stroke of those huge wings, a fulsome gush of hot wind, and Mairon rose, trailing sparks, on the updraft created by his own searing heat. 

‘Wethil watched him rip through the dark, leaving long lines of sparkling light behind. Leathery wings worked as hard as they could; she raced to keep up. 

The vampiress had heard about this, but never imagined she’d actually see it! 

This was the sight, she thought, that had awed rotation after rotation of battlement guards. They’d seen him coming ten days out: at first a mere glimmer on the horizon and then a blazing brand over icy Northern steppes. Finally, materializing as an enormous firebird that dropped like a rock, only to land lighter than a feather, on the highest fortification. 

They’d said, Thuringwethil remembered, that a leather bag had hit first, with a resounding metallic clash, and that Melkor, Himself, had manifested almost immediately after Mairon landed; to personally welcome their new brother to Utumno. 

Deep below, a sudden, furious bellow split the silence. The very rock around them shook and splintered, sending shards clattering down the walls, and a glistening...thing ...lunged up toward Mairon’s trailing sparks. 

Beyond huge, it had a segmented black carapace over a massive cylindrical body but no discernible eyes. Countless spiked legs drove into the cavern walls as it lunged again toward the Foundry Master’s light. 

That gaping maw could swallow them both at once. They’d be less than a tidbit. Enormous maxillae, bristling with spiky feelers thicker than a troll’s leg, opened wide to snatch Mairon from the air and feed him down a throat so immense that an overpowering, putrid wind blasted up from the beast’s belly. 

Thuringwethil snapped her wings harder, trying to get above the round, beadlike head. It drove up at them again. ‘Wethil’s foot touched the thing and she pushed with all her might against the hard surface. Icy chitin sizzled against her toe-claws. 

She shrieked in rage and pain as the fur on her legs froze and cracked away. The thing was so bloody cold, it burned! 

Ahead of her, the Foundry Master banked, a shower of sparks outlined his course change, and swooped around in a decreasing spiral. As Thuringwethil shot up, barely avoiding a conical stalactite, Mairon swirled down to satisfy his inherent curiosity. 

Now Thuringwethil shrieked in terror, “Away, lord, away!” 

But he paid no heed. Spiraling tighter, he whipped around the thing’s head. Flurries of white fire cascaded along its extended body and disappeared into the bowels of the earth. No sign of the thing’s rear end... 

Then, with a thrust of his wings, Mairon rose on a column of blazing flame; a rip-roaring, blue-and-white conflagration. The creature screamed and arced away. It struck the side of the cavern with such force, an earthquake rippled out. 

The stalactites above broke loose and plummeted. 

Thuringwethil banked and rolled, desperate to avoid those enormous missiles. She couldn’t fold her wings fast enough and one stone trajectile clipped her. She spun out of control. Plunged in a flailing tangle and did not see the Foundry Master tuck back his golden wings and dive, with ever-increasing speed, after her. 

Flipping head over arse, she felt something latch around one ankle. She wrenched to a stop mid-air. Her fangs crashed together once, then again as the manacle around her ankle jerked her upward. 

Head dangling, Thuringwethil hung stunned as Mairon’s wings cracked above her. Their sparks skittered over her body; a scintillating shower that flowed away too fast to burn. She knew it, however, when he dropped her and she crashed to the stony ground. 

Far behind, she heard, and felt, the deep-dweller smash itself against the walls of its abyss. Tremors rocked Utumno’s very foundations. 

High above, an unstable watchtower shuddered, shook, and imploded in a shower of masonry and roof tiles. Four battlements crumbled, scattering giant stone blocks through the upper courtyard. The main gate twisted in its hinges. 

Thuringwethil sat up. A figure, edged by gold light, bent down... 

Mairon slapped her across the face. The blow snapped her head around. 

“Bitch.” 

The vampire gasped in shock, then in outrage, “Lord!” 

Now his voice came cold, soft, and venomous, “Rat was right. I’ll bind my books with your hide.” 

“NO! No, lord, I beg you...” 

The glow around him extinguished. Since the pale green fungi had sloughed off the shattered walls, they were left in perfect darkness. 

‘Wethil’s highly sensitive bat-ears plainly heard the _zishhhh_ of a blade sliding free of its sheath. 

“NO!” Thuringwethil shrieked and threw herself face down on the stone. One clawed wing joint snapped out; it found a booted foot. She hooked his ankle, “It’s not a trap! No, no, please, _please_ , lord, I _beg you_!” Words deserted her. Sobbing, groveling, the vampiress flung up her other wing to protect her head. 

Instead of feeling a blow, the bite of steel, she heard a scuffle...Mairon’s ankle wrenched from her clutching claw tip. As he spun, his heel came down on her delicate wing membrane, grinding thin tissue against the stone below. 

“Unhand her,” hissed in the dark, “Unhand her,” 

‘Wethil recognized the voice, “Sueph! Stop! It was a misunderstanding!” She fumbled one wing joint against the floor and pushed up into a squat, “Sueph, stop!” 

Golden light blazed; the whole tunnel glowed. 

Several voices cried out in pain and Thuringwethil’s joined them. 

The Foundry Master stood with a short sword in one hand and a ball of roiling flame suspended above the other. Four of ‘Wethil’s siblings cowered at the very edge of the glow, their wings or arms uplifted to shield nocturnal eyes from the sudden glare. 

“Lord, look at us! We’re dark. We fly. Our wings are soft: silent.” ‘Wethil gestured at her siblings. 

Mairon lifted his heel from her pinned wing. Turning a slow circle, he observed the tunnel, the cringing vampires...and her. 

A strong tremor rocked the walls and the floor underfoot. “You’ve angered the deep-dweller,” hissed her siblings as they cringed back into the shadows, “it will bring down everything above us,” 

As if to prove their point, the ground heaved underfoot. Mairon swayed, Thuringwethil fell onto her side, and the vampires at safe distance lurched and clung to the walls. 

Shards of stone clashed and clattered from the tunnel ceiling. Harsh, particulate dust, full of grit and dirt stink, whooshed and billowed around them. 

Then it came: soft and soothing; a lulling song. From everywhere at once, the low, wordless hum seeped out of the rocks and coalesced between molecules of air. Above, below, through them, the Master sang of deep slumber. 

“Hurry,” whispered Thuringwethil, as she scrambled up, “hurry, or we’ll sleep here forever...” Moving as fast as she could on pinions and back-jointed legs, she minced toward the darkness in which her siblings had sought cover. 

The ball of floating flame extinguished. 

Lord Mairon shifted his flesh as he moved, ridding himself of the last vestiges of his firebird form. He slipped underneath her, hefting her onto his back, and long legs carried them through pitch darkness. 

“I can’t see a fucking thing,” Mairon rasped over his shoulder. 

“Straight, straight,” ‘Wethil whispered in his ear, “Now left, turn left,” because she could. “Straight, a hundred yards, then we turn right. I will guide you, my lord. Trust me, trust Thuringwethil, I will not steer you wrong. Here, turn right. We’re nearly to the Roost.” 

Behind them, several aftershocks, each one progressively weaker, rocked out from the deep-dweller's pit until the earth stilled, sheered fragments ceased to drop, and once again silence reigned. 

Thuringwethil, her knee joints dug into Mairon’s muscled flanks, rested her chin on his shoulder and crooned, “Twenty yards, my lord, and we descend. Watch your footing.” 

Into the dark they went. Never once did Lord Mairon question her or doubt the instructions whispered into his ear. 

After a while, Thuringwethil began to grin. When they passed through the high arch that led into the Roost proper, she positively crowed with triumph, “Here, lord, we are here!” 

Dim lights dotted the huge chamber: in concession to the Foundry Master’s matinal eyes. Every vampire in Utumno amassed. And Sengu, spread out on their pinions and wide, delicately boned feet, waited on the raised ledge at the end of the great hall. 

_Foundry Master, welcome._

“First and Foremost, he attacked our sister with steel!” one of the vampires who’d preceded them almost howled. 

“It was a misunderstanding, First and Foremost!” ‘Wethil shrieked, her voice a siren that rose into ultrasonic ranges. 

Mairon, sliding her off his back, winced, jerked, and clamped a hand to his ear.

Thuringwethil landed in a sprawled, undignified heap. But she couldn’t blame him. She’d basically screamed right into that ear.

The lord reached down and hauled ‘Wethil to her feet. “What was that?” 

“Old,” hummed a hundred soft voices. 

“The deep-dweller,” Thuringwethil replied as if it explained everything. 

Sengu pinion walked to the edge of their ledge and dropped onto the cavern floor. They approached Mairon, sending out a flurry of thought: 

_It is as old as the underpinnings of Arda and has been trapped there since before We arrived. We think the Master_ _captured_ _it when He delved the first halls. We settled here because it makes a fine doorkeeper. It hates light. Anything that falls into its abyss, it consumes. It keeps us safe._

“Safe from what?” 

_Everything, lord. Everything but our Master. Few test its strength._

Mairon thought about it a moment then nodded. He looked up into Sengu’s foxlike face, “Thuringwethil said it was a matter of some urgency?” 

_Sarf this day fell from Favour, lord, and we fear for your safety. You withdrew and did not witness the event. You must be on guard, Foundry Master._

“I’ve heard.” Mairon set back on a heel and clasped his hands behind his back in an attitude of resting attention. “Though, I do appreciate your warning, Sengu Foremost.” 

That small measure of respect pleased the entire Brood. Rustling wings fell still and red eyes crept out of the shadows to get a better look at the Foundry Master. 

_We would be of aid to you, if you will?_

Mairon glance around the cavern. His face was calm, revealing nothing, but a thrill surged within him. There had to be one, mayhap, two hundred siblings here... 

“What do you propose, Sengu?” 

_Alliance, lord._

Yellow-sapphire eyes flared in the darkness, “Go on, I’m listening...” 


	5. Vermin In Extremis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vermin are having A-VERY-BAD-NO-GOOD morning...
> 
> Rat's attempt to follow Mairon and Thuringwethil takes an unexpected, and extremely hot, turn, and Vole is confronted with that which all small Umaiar fear most...

* * *

Part Five: Vermin In Extremis 

  
  
Breath rasping, one side shot with an almighty stitch, Rat pelted through a narrow, enclosed channel that led down, down, down into the depths of Utumno. Straight to its deep, black heart.

She knew every route to the Brood Roost. Best to avoid those caverns if you were small enough to be food, but now she ran as if Melkor, Himself, gave chase. 

She’d long since veered from the path that toothy, bloodsucking bitch had taken her master. 

She may not have wings, but there were other resources a tiny little evil might use to her advantage: such as this air duct. She raced ever downward as fast as four scurrying paws could carry her. 

Until her dark and narrow world convulsed. 

Explosive percussion filled the duct as if Arda ripped itself apart around her. The noise was deafening, in these close confines, and sharp pain, like a thousand needles, lanced inside tiny eardrums.

Behind her, the duct collapsed and popping cracks raced—above, below, and alongside—through enclosing rock. She ran faster. A sudden sulfurous stink, rotten and eggy, flooded the small passage. 

Heat gushed through widening fissures. The stone beneath all four paws became blistering hot. Rat squealed and pressed short legs for all their worth. 

When the rock beneath her shattered, Rat scrabbled for purchase. Pushing on harder, faster, she all but danced on the very tips of her claws... 

Supporting stone dropped away; disappeared beneath flying paws. Rat plunged into a hot cavern. Its floor had fractured and fallen. 

As had the cavern below, and the one below that... 

Rat fell on. 

The air became scorching. 

Tumbling amid chunks of broken rock, she hurtled toward something bright orange...bubbling...lethally hot... 

The lava pools! 

Vole crept down from the bed to put wood on the fire...real wood, imagine that, not coal. Coal stank. 

The logs in the wood basket were almost as big as he was, and Vole had to shove a piece off, tip it on end, and roll it to the hearth. Getting it onto the fire-grate took some thought, but he managed to wrangle it in without setting himself ablaze. 

The last, dying embers fast kindled dry bark and soon there was a merry flicker and spreading warmth. It smelled lovely, too. So much nicer than coal. 

Vole poked his head into the front room, where the glow globes still gave off their faint yellow light...but all was silent.

No sign of the master. No sign of Rat. Vole looked up at the seemingly clear air, and remembered the glowing lines of power. Crouched small, he went to the double doors that led into the hallway. First, he pressed a pointy little ear to the door join, then he sniffed at it. No, nothing.

Wondering if he should put a log on this fire, which had burnt down to a couple of winking embers, he rocked from foot to foot before the hearth. The bells chimed three and Vole decided, no, he would not feed this fire.

The serving table emitted mouth-watering smells, and he crept up on it. Pushing on tiptoe, he saw that the plate atop the stack held an untouched piece of meat, a couple of mushrooms, and a chunk of bread. Stretching up, he grabbed the bread and ripped off some of the crispy-crispy crust before he tossed the soft part back. 

Taking his prize, he scuttled into the bedchamber, leaving the door ajar as Rat had left it, and slithered back under the heavy bed drapes to resume his vigil over their sleeping guest. 

He’d just finished that lovely bit of crust, when, suddenly, the whole room heaved. The Superior—though not by much—sibling in the bed slept on but Vole thrust his head out the drapes and stared in horror as everything trembled and wrenched. 

The round bronze mirror behind Mairon’s dressing table swung wildly, back and forth, on its hinged stand. Glass jars of oil and unguent chattered. The tapestries undulated against the walls. 

From other rooms, a variety of noises—clunks and thumps—made the little Umaia nearly insane with worry. What if they thought he’d done it? 

He’d be cast back to the common rooms! Rat would hate him! 

When the bed hopped against the dais below it, Vole flew out between the drapes. Just in time to see the new log bounce once, then twice in the fire grate. The following tremor set it rolling out onto the andirons; the whole grate tipped up too. 

The next tremor was little more than a twitch of earthen plates far below, and the one after that barely registered. 

Vole, all attention on the burning log, moaned in horror. Pelting for the fireplace, he struggled to free the hooked stoker from the nearby tool rack. 

And did not see the fuligin Darkness that manifested in the wingchair on the other side of the hearth. An opaque shadow in constant motion twisted and warped reality around it. A thousand different forms flickered from one moment to the next, none more than a fleeting impression. 

Distorted, continually shifting, it went from beast to Child, from Child to winged demiurge, to other shapes even a Maia’s eyes could not behold and fully comprehend. Some piercingly beautiful, some beyond horrific, before it manifested as a seraphically perfect male humanoid. 

Skin like freshly cut marble, steel-blue eyes, and a flowing mane that kept the blacker-than-black tones of that writhing shadow: Melkor became corporeal. 

His long, muscular length fit the wingchair to perfection. 

As if He’d made it for Himself. 

He had. 

Dark blue eyes at half-mast, angelic face shuttered, the Vala sat for long moments: preoccupied with His thoughts. Without looking around, He reached out. Strong fingertips flicked the fallen log back into the hearth without any regard for its orange and yellow flames. 

The grate thunked, dully metallic, back onto its supporting andirons which, in turn, clonked against the brick hearth. 

Melkor’s fingers flicked. The cloud of smoke billowing against Mairon’s ceiling churned in a loop and flowed into the fireplace before it disappeared up the long chimney stack. 

Vole turned to the double clunks. 

He clutched the fire stoker to his chest, mouth wide in a silent shriek, as he recognized the massive fana in the wingchair. 

Vole dropped the stoker then fell on his face beside it. He lay trembling from disheveled black hair to tiny clawed toes. 

Melkor ignored him. 

Shifting in the chair, the Vala sighed, “What hast thou done, my clever Thû?” Then steel blue eyes focused on the bed...and its closed drapes. 

Melkor’s next breath was swift and sharp: it lifted His whole chest. 

“Ah,” He breathed, “finally!” 

Vole nearly had a convulsion at the sound. 

Melkor, all in one swift, graceful motion, stood and shed His damson velvet robe. Beneath He wore only a thin silk nightshirt, so fine it left very little to the imagination, and He untied its drawn neckline as He padded toward the bed. 

“Little Maia,” the Master crooned, “long have I waited.” He shed pale silk, stepping carelessly out of its crumpled circle, on His way. Sporting an enormous cockstand, with tangible anticipation crackling the air around Him, Melkor drew back the drapes at the foot of the bed. 

He stopped. Anticipation transmuted into something far darker, and impending violence brimmed in the whole suite. His cock twitched against his belly but did not fall. 

Vole wrenched to his feet, Sheer terror nearly made his bladder let go, but...his lord had spoken, had given his Word, and Vole, knowing it could be his very last act in the physical world, summoned all his courage. 

Scuttling across the carpet, up onto the dais, he threw his chest across Melkor’s foot as the Vala stretched out a long arm. 

Sinewy fingers, curled into a rigid claw, paused just above Etuth’s calf. Melkor looked down. 

Despite not waking, the Umaia in the bed contracted into a tight ball and began to shake. Burying his face in a pillow, Etuth sobbed in his sleep. 

Melkor’s eye flicked to the sudden motion and noise. Contempt twisted perfect lips. Scorn washed over angular features; He scowled. Then He reached down and, winding His fingers in messy black hair, yanked Vole up to eye level. 

Again, He stopped. 

“Who the fuck art thou?” Melkor demanded. 

Etuth’s teeth chattered, and the Vala grimaced in disgust. He gestured with his free hand: a wave of oblivion rolled across the bed. Its occupant’s annoying little noises ceased. 

Vole’s black eyes popped, and he struggled past a burst of panic that made him want to scream, scream, scream...instead, he gave a breathless cheep. 

Melkor looked around the chamber, “Where is she? She’s supposed to be here.” 

Vole rattled out a thin explanation. 

The Dark Vala moved across the room in three long strides. Opening the workroom door, He stared at the empty cot with its piled cushions and beautifully embroidered blankets. 

Vole continued to explain that Rat had followed their master to the bloodsuckers' Roost. 

“Thy master?” All expression wiped from Melkor’s handsome face. One black eyebrow lifted. 

“L-l-lord Mai-mai-mai,” Vole stammered. 

“Lord Mairon? They’re calling him lord?” Pleasure lit the Master’s eyes. 

Vole couldn’t nod, in fact, his whole head hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced. He felt like his skin was slowly ripping off the skull beneath...he cheeped. 

“Excellent.” Melkor purred. He let Vole drop to the floor. Hewn features went sharp, “What is that useless meat-sack doing here?” Gesturing back to the bed. 

Vole took his head in both hands. Threading little fingers through messy black hair, he assured himself that his scalp was still firmly attached while he explained that Lord Mairon had taken the...the...meat-sack...under his Protection. Given his Word that the other Umaiar would rest safely here tonight. 

Melkor wiped his hands together. Strands of Vole’s hair fluttered to the carpet. 

“Did he, indeed?” The Master glanced over His shoulder. Puzzled blue eyes swept Etuth’s unconscious body. “How strange.” 

And when Vole explained about the dinner party, “What _is_ he up to?” Melkor murmured, but he wasn’t asking Vole. 

Which was good, because Vole hadn’t a clue. 

“Clever....little...forge...spirit...” Melkor hummed. 

Vole did his best to become tiny and unobtrusive, almost melting into the carpet. 

“Thou ne'er failest to surprise, my little darling.” 

Melkor snapped his fingers: abandoned clothing disappeared out of the armchair and off the floor. He, Himself, faded, becoming transparent, as the molecules that comprised His current fana disbursed. 

For a moment, the Vala’s energy hummed and warped reality around it...then He was gone. 

Vole, eyes rolling back in his little head, fainted on the spot. 

Rat heard herself scream. Loud and unreal, she didn’t know when she’d started but it ripped from her throat...a long, high-pitched squeal that seemed to flip in the air beside her. 

She couldn’t stop... 

As she plummeted, the lava pool below expanded bigger...wider...filling her vision until nothing existed beyond its sluggish, black-and-orange craquelure. 

Falling debris broke the variegated surface. Sparks flared. Rock shards, engulfed in white and blue flame, snapped, cracked, and melted. Thick globs of molten stone plopped and splattered. Plumes of choking smoke spewed from the deadly, glowing ocean. 

It waited patiently, without pity, to consume her flesh. Fur, meat, and bones would surely burn to ash before she actually hit that ever-expanding, viscous surface. Wouldn’t they? 

She didn’t want to see! Her eyes squeezed shut but the scream shrilled on: ripping thin from her raw throat... 

With a sudden shock, she hit something hot...but not lava hot. It gave on impact. She bounced. Her eyes sprang open. 

For half a moment, she was too stunned to think. To react. 

A bolt of disbelief flickered through every synapse and nerve ending. Then little claws spread wide, seeking purchase. 

Rat latched into tough, leathery skin. 

“ **Ouch! What the fuck is that?** ” A rumbling voice demanded, “ **What hit my back?** ” 

Laughter, like the glassy plink-tink-clink of free-flowing lava, filled the air. Rat scuttled for a flat vantage. Bright black eyes darted around.

Dark shapes moved in the dim glow from the lava pools. Huge dark shapes, with gigantic horns and glowing orange eyes... 

“ **It’s moving!** **Get it OFF!** ” 

The solid mass beneath her rippled and twisted. Rat spotted long black talons coming for her over what looked like a massive shoulder. She fled the groping hand. 

“ **What is it?** ” 

“ **Tiny.** ” 

“ **Ugly.** ” 

“ **Fast.** ” 

“ **Get it off me! It itches!** ” 

“ **The quakes have stopped.** ” 

“ **So it seems, Commander. Should we report to the Captain?** ” 

“ **Fairly sure he’ll notice on his own,** **Sythmig** **.** ” 

“ **Get it off me!** ” 

“ **Shut your gob,** **Gureg** **.** ” 

“ **Commander, it** ** _tickles_** **...** ” 

Rat ran over a mountainous body comprised of hot, black skin and bulging muscles. For a moment, she paused on a rounded curve and realized she clung, precariously, to the shoulder of a Valarauko. 

And that the sooty shadows clopping toward her were at least three more fire demons. 

She’d landed in Balrogath territory. 

Their enormous hooves echoed on the stone floor as they circled their compatriot...and her. Another clawed hand reached out. Rat darted over the huge shoulder. Seeking cover, she raced diagonally across a wide chest. A hollow armpit provided a moment’s respite. 

Rat sucked in smoky air and choked on sulfurous fumes. She spent a precious moment channeling overheated blood to her tail as her body temperature soared. 

She had to get away from here. Fast! 

Looking down, she saw lava splats cooling on the floor, glowing innards still visible between the cracks in their dark, crusty surfaces. 

Not that way! 

Sharp little claws latched into the arm above, and she rounded a bulging bicep. Curls of ashy smoke rose through the shattered ceiling and ascended into ripped open chambers above. 

Up, she needed to go up. 

The foundry was somewhere up there, and she’d be safe once in its familiar caverns. The smiths knew her. 

Rat raced away as new talons made a snatch at her unbearably hot tail. Circling the Balrog’s columnar throat, she aimed for the curled horns atop its towering head. 

Rat ran up a bony chin, found decent gaps for her claws between long black fangs, and pelted along the flared curve of a nostril. 

“ **Oh, fuck, it’s on my face!** ” bellowed her furious support “ **Get it off!** ” 

She crested that huge head and darted under a jutting horn just as one immense hand swiped where she’d been. Rat stopped to wheeze and realized the flesh underfoot wasn’t quite so leathery, or tough, as the rest. 

“ **Get your claw out of my eye,** **Sythmig** **!** ” 

“ **Hold still,** **Gureg** **, yah whiny clot,** ” 

She bit the sensitive rim from which the horn grew. Several times. 

“ **OW! It’s gnawing off my horn!** ” 

“ **Not likely,** **Gureg** **. Be still, we’ll catch it,** ” 

“ **No, leave it, Kosomot. Never seen** **Gureg** **dance so well.** ” 

“ **That’s true. Last feast, just embarrassing,** ” 

“ **Shut up,** **Sythmig** **! Commander Kosomot,** ” 

Rat, for good measure, sank her needle-like teeth into tender flesh one last time. Call her ugly! 

When a talon poked under Gureg’s horn, Rat bolted out the other side. Balrog horns were, luckily, not smooth bone; she raced up the rough, scaled surface. 

Unluckily, Gureg dipped his head toward one of his fellows. “ **Commander, grab it!** ” 

Rat assessed in a flash. Were they close enough to the wall? No, but the next Balrog over, he was much closer. She launched off the tip of Gureg’s forward-swept horn and landed on a new expanse of smooth, black skin. 

“ **Shit, now it’s on me!** ” 

“ **HA,** **Sythmig** **! See how** ** _you_** **like it!** ” 

Rat sped up a wide forearm, over a rounded bicep, and prepared to hurtle herself off a mountainous shoulder socket. The wall, rough and ragged, offered safety and a straight path, through the collapsed ceiling hole, to the chambers above. 

But the leap from shoulder to wall spanned an intimidating gap. 

She could make it, she could! 

“ **Shit, that tickles!** ” 

“ **Let it scuttle over him for a bit, Commander** **.** **Wait ‘til it finds** ** _your_** **horns!** ” 

Rat rocketed off the Balrog at full speed. Weightless, soaring, she flew through hot smoky air with all four paws splayed wide. Ready with all her claws and spongy footpads to latch on at impact. 

“ **Ho, there it goes!** ” 

She could almost feel solid stone beneath her... 

A huge hand, sporting six black talons, snatched her from the air. Brief pressure forced the breath out her lungs, and Rat thought she’d be crushed, disembodied, before she could flee dying flesh. But the hand opened just enough for a dim orange eye to peer into the tight cavity which enclosed her. 

“ **Ha! Caught it! Commander, I caught it!** ” 

Rat poked out her snout, only to have massive fingers close around the rest of her. Trapped! She stared a smirking Balrog straight in its terrible, fanged face. A moment later she hung, head down, suspended by her tail—and oh, it hurt! 

Rat shrilled. Her pained cry reached into ultrasonic ranges, and the fire-demon holding her winced. 

“ **Nasty little thing!** ” a deep voice growled, “ **A dip in the lava will shut** **its** **gob!** ” 

“ **Toes first!** ” 

“ **Headfirst; shut it up!** ” 

“ **Give it here,** **Gureg.** ” 

“ **But, Commander,** ” 

Rat’s black eyes swiveled to the approaching Balrog. He held out an open palm. 

“ **Give it here,** **Gureg** **.** ” 

Sulkily, “ **Yes, sir.** ” 

She found herself dropped flat. But this new hand didn’t squeeze tight around her. Rat scuttled in a half-circle and found two huge, gleaming orange eyes staring at her. They flickered like open flames. 

She was all but spent. The heat, the exertion, the choking gas wafting up from the molten pools below, left her little to give. With the last of her strength, she shifted flesh. The additional weight of her seed-and-needle box, folded between realities but still a burden, lifted. It appeared beside her. 

Rat plonked on her bum in the Commander’s warm palm and, scooping the box into her little lap, threw back her head and wailed. 

She’d failed her lord. Failed him utterly, and now the vampires had him! Who knew what horrors... Yes, he was strong, but they were many and he was alone! Rat’s plaintive howl redoubled. 

“ **Troll shit,** ” cursed one of the demons who stood in a loose semi-circle around the Balrog who held her. 

“ **By the Master’s a** **rse** **, shut up**!” 

Thinking of Melkor, and what the Vala would do to her, made Rat howl even louder. Better to be flung into the lava and emerge a mere wisp! Better to exist for eternity as a shadowy speck smaller than a grain of dirt! Better to be Unmade as if she’d never, ever existed! 

“ **Damn noisy, inn’t it?** ” 

Flickering orange eyes blinked. 

“ **Crush it, Commander!** ” 

“ **Toss it in the bath,** ” that Balrog gestured at the gloppy, bubbling lava pool. 

Rat howled herself out. She fell back on the Balrog’s open palm and lay moaning. So much, she’d done so much to see her master elevated to his rightful Place... fulfill the Purpose for which he was destined... 

Across the cavern, new hooves clomped hard and fast: a fifth Balrog paused on its way passed the entry, “ **The foundry’s afire!** ” 

Rat sat up. No! Unthinkable! All of her master’s hard work! 

“ **Lungorthin will laugh his horns off!** ” 

“ **The lava pools are draining into the magma chambers!** ” railed the fire demon in the tunnel, “ **How will we renew our cores?"**

 **"We’ll freeze our** **arses** **off!** ” 

“ **How will we get new axes? The ones we have now are shite!** ” 

The Balrog who’d brought the news clomped onward, bellowing, “ **Lord Lungorthin, the lava pools are draining into the magma chambers!** ” 

“ **What in fuck am I supposed to do about it?** ” bellowed back the deepest, most rumbly voice yet, “ **’Tis that little ginger bitch’s problem.** ” 

The nearby lava bath sparked and plopped. Its center sank into a round concavity, and, slow but steady, the lava’s black-and-orange mottled surface began to recede. 

The three Balrogs who’d circled Rat and her captor, their attention thoroughly diverted, beat hoof against floor in the direction of their Captain’s voice. 

“ **Lord Lungorthin,** ” one of them roared, “ **You must go to the Master,** ” 

“ **At this rate, the volcano will blow,** ” said the fire demon who held her in his open palm. “ **That’ll be a lot of bother,** ” to himself. 

Rat slapped the palm beneath her arse. When the Balrog didn’t notice, she dipped her head between parted knees and sank in tiny fangs—hard! 

“ **Ouch.** ” Great orange eyes lost their inward focus. “ **What do you want, little sib?** ” 

Rat chittered. 

“ **Sister. What do you want, little sister? Up and out, I imagine. You’re far from the common rooms.** ” He turned to the wall and began to lift her toward the shattered ceiling above. 

Rat shrilled loud and long. 

He pulled his hand back down until they were, once again, face-to-face. 

She warbled and clicked as fast as she could. 

“ **So, you aren’t a placeless drudge,** ” plainly humoring her. 

Pulling herself to her feet, Rat sang a loud, proud, wordless tune and spread both arms wide. She dropped into her awkward squat of a curtsey. 

“ **The Foundry Master?** ” the Balrog’s interest quickened. 

Rat nodded and trilled. With the tip of her tail between her hands, she spun a tale of another sort. 

In other words, she lied. 

Just a bit. 

Lord Mairon so _admired_ the Commander, she sang—which was not far from the truth, Lord Mairon truly did admire the Balrogath in _concept_ —that he felt it a great pity that Lungorthin possessed no...farsight. 

Lord Mairon had said to her, more than once, it was a shame, a _damned_ shame, that the fire demons did not come to _him_ for weapons worthy of their immense physical strength. He alone had the skill to produce crucible steel in amounts large enough, pure enough, to ensure those magnificent symbols of the Master’s Body Guard, those immense black-bladed axes, would _never_ shatter on impact. (As they were wont to do.) 

What other wonders could Lord Mairon produce for them? If only Lungorthin would allow it, but the Captain was too proud, too jealous of his Place, to see the other Balrogath properly armed. To suffer competition, even from his own kind. 

The Commander’s massive, ridged brow drew down. Orange eyes narrowed to flickering slits. Kosomot hissed softly between long, black fangs. 

Why, her master despaired! He truly, deeply grieved that Lungorthin's swollen pride acted _against the Master’s Best Interests_. 

And she added, with perfect truth, that Lord Mairon wanted nothing more, and nothing less, than for every Umaia to fulfill their Purpose to the best of their abilities. 

Saying nothing about how every Lesser Umaia in the common rooms sighed and wiggled when they heard Kosomot’s name. How they raced to the sparring sands when Kosomot thumped out to practice. Because Rat had been, until recently, one of those ravening little fanatics. 

One could not say Kosomot was nice, or kind, but he was not cruel, just for cruelty’s sake, to his Lesser siblings...unlike Langon Herald and Lungorthin, Captain of the Guard. 

How the little ones loved to see the Commander outfight his Captain in the practice sands...and it happened often enough to make Lungorthin view Kosomot as an active threat rather than a mere rival. 

Rat sang, Lord Mairon would surely work with the Commander. Yea, gladly! To both their benefit. And who knew what other weapons her clever, clever master could create for the Balrog’s advantage? 

Rat hugged her tail to her breast, shoulders drooping, and sadly shook her head. 

But the Captain would never permit it. 

“ **Fuck Lungorthin,** ” a bare breath, hot and sulfurous, stirred her lank black hair. 

The other six Balrogath were, somewhere deeper, engaged in a furious argument that rapidly grew thunderous. Their own language grated and rasped, rumbled and roared, ever louder from down the tunnel. 

Kosomot’s giant head twisted toward the doorway. His scowl was truly terrible to behold. 

It took every last nerve Rat possessed not to cringe or curl into a ball in the Commander’s hand. The earthquakes had been nothing compared to this. 

One ferocious, overpowering bellow silenced the others, “ **Silence!** **We do NOTHING!** ” Lungorthin would not be persuaded otherwise. 

This, it seemed, was the final affront against Kosomot’s pride. Black wings, wider than night and more powerful than storm, spread from his back. 

“ **Hold on, little sister, hold tight.** ” he curled his massive hand around her and, with a thrust from hoof and wing alike, propelled himself through the broken ceilings of not one but four caverns. As he shouldered through an intact tunnel arch, he opened that hand. “ **The foundry is this way, yes?** ” Gesturing with her to the left. 

Rat, pointing, shrilled an affirmation. Gigantic steps hurried them toward the sound of crackling fire, roaring flames, and the shouts of panicked smiths. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive a mouse for posting the first four chapters without notes. For some reason, AO3 isn't translating Rich Text correctly from MS Word Online. So, she spent hours taking out extra spaces around specialized text, i.e. italic and bold. And also hunting down typos and other issues suddenly made visible by changed fonts. You must be aware that the mouse is Ms. Fussy Whiskers when it comes to writing quality.
> 
> A mouse pleads with you all to adhere to the quarantine procedures put in place by your healthcare agencies, no matter how inconvenient, and prays for your safety and welfare! No matter who or where you are, please take the best care you can! Each and every one of you is a precious glimmer in a world that needs all the light it can get with so many acting in less-than-admirable ways.
> 
> This story has been published much earlier than a mouse would like in the editing process to provide amusement for those who find themselves suddenly at home without enough pleasing occupations to keep them busy. Forgive the warts and wrinkles, my dears, and hopefully enjoy the spirit of the narrative. (If anyone spots said wart or wrinkle and is kind enough to bring it to my attention, I will thank you enthusiastically and promptly fix the darn thing.)
> 
> As always, a mouse tries to provide the best story she can and hopes you find something here to make you smile, or think, or inspires your own creativity!
> 
> With so much love to each and every one of you,
> 
> And those special friends who know who they are and hopefully know how much a socially awkward, introverted lil mouse admires and loves them,
> 
> sending strength and patience and health energy all the way around the globe!
> 
> March 17th 2020


	6. A Timely Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon, finishing negotiations with his new vampiric allies, is summoned to the foundry. What he finds appalls him and he immediately goes to work in order to preserve all that he's built since his defection.
> 
> Too many problems for a lone forge-Maia, but then, a surprising, new ally arrives to lend a hand...
> 
> Also, Melkor being creepy...

Part Six: A Timely Meeting

The Brood Roost:

“I would greatly appreciate that, Foremost, ‘tis kind of you to offer.” Mairon dipped his head to Sengu. A faint smile played one edge of his perfect mouth. He stood at ease, encircled by new allies, with his hands tucked behind his back. 

Negotiations had gone surprisingly well. But then, the vampires had spent most of the day hammering down what they had to offer and what they desired. 

The whole process was swift and efficient, much to Mairon’s satisfaction. _Perfect._

Sengu loomed above him, their foxlike head dipped to his level, _Our pleasure, Foundry Master, we assure you. We also thought you might benefit from our ability to move unseen. Many do not look up, and often we...overhear...details most interesting while we wing our way about the fortress. As Thuringwethil remarked, we are silent flyers._

“We also travel as shadow,” Sueph, tall and lean, stood on Mairon’s left, “and go unnoticed in the dark.” 

From Thuringwethil on his right, “As shadow, we can defy almost any door by passing through the join, or a keyhole, or the gap at the floor. That’s how I came to you, lord.” 

“I see.” Mairon found both concepts _very_ interesting. A network of spies, already organized, with the ability to fly silently or manifest as shade within shadow, in a fortress as devoid of light as Utumno, and the ability to slip beyond most locked doors. Oh, yes, such potential, guided by his hand... 

He offered, in return, “I will turn my mind to your excess moisture problem. Maggots in your wing pits must be singularly unpleasant. Perhaps I could re-channel that well-spring or delve a vent alongside the magma chambers. That would allow warm air to flow up to your Roost. Foundational strata are my particular forte. I foresee no difficulty manipulating them here,” looking around the cavern. “No difficulty at all.” 

“And we can teach you to sip the power of the Flame Imperishable,” offered a female vampire, her name hadn’t been mentioned in his hearing, “from Umaia and animal alike. If you’d prefer not to drink blood,” 

“Purpose requires all possible measures. I am curious to see if either skill can be taught or learned.” Mairon mused. His eyes still roamed the cavern walls. A tiny flicker, a golden spark, caught his attention. Mairon frowned...the flicker grew brighter...there at the far end of the cavern. It became a long, thin, vertical strip of golden light. 

Mairon realized he stared down a narrow crevice, and something...someone?...raced toward him through the deep channel. 

“Shield your eyes!” He barked. The vampires all threw a wing or arm over their nocturnal eyes. 

The whole cavern blazed with red and gold sparks as the approaching forge-spirit broke free of the crevice. 

It sang a Song of chaos: of the slag heap afire and the vent network collapsing; one crucible spilt and its molten steel contaminated; the magma chambers draining deep; a foundry floor cracked and shifting beneath blast furnaces...threatening collapse! 

Mairon reached out and curled his fingers around one of Sengu’s pinions, “I must go, keep your eyes shielded,” he gave bone and soft black skin a reassuring squeeze, “We have an accord...should I survive this...” For the Master would be right to take his flesh, and deny him its return, should the foundry crash into the magma chambers. If Melkor did not judge it so, Mairon would beg for no less. 

From one long step to another, the Foundry Master shed flesh and bone. Naked energy, he flew into the crevice from which his brother smith had come. 

Leaving the Brood Roost asparkle, Mairon flowed between the rocky layers he claimed as his forte. 

Traveling fast, all senses spread wide, he left behind the disembodied spirit who’d summoned him. 

When he reached the under-bed of the foundry... _his_ foundry...what he felt appalled him. The weight of the two main blast furnaces no longer secure on thick beds of solid basalt, structural integrity of the entire floor compromised, and the working caverns plagued by a spilled crucible, one slag heap smoldering and spewing thick, black smoke, the vent network collapsed, and worst of all, precious magma chambers, once full of molten rock, more than half empty and still draining. 

Zig-zagging amid cracked strata, he found open fissures leading to an expanding subterranean ocean. The massive pocket, already under considerable pressure, was near full; yet it still sought room to expand. There was only one direction it could go: up and out through one of the newly raised mountain peaks. 

Mairon spread himself thinner and wider until his consciousness melded with layers of stone and earth. 

Vibrating with the Song taught to him by Aulë, so very long ago, Mairon transmuted masses of soil and rock into sheer energy. Wrenching clouds of molecules aside, he cleared collapsed upper chambers. 

Work he had done before, and knew well...but now he was alone. Then, there had been a hundred siblings Singing in concert. Skillfully conducted by Aulë, who’s understanding of crust structure had far exceeded their own. He, after all, had conceived it. 

But Mairon had been a diligent student, ever-hungry to learn Aulë's craft, and he knew what should be done, even if he did not possess the energy to do it. Now, there was no choice. 

Otherwise, all he had built would come crashing down, literally, before it spewed out an exploding mountaintop. 

The problem, he realized, was Utumno’s substructure. Too much basalt, not enough granite. Unnatural levels of haematite concentrated by a Divine Will that desired a rich source of iron ore close to hand. Melkor, in forming basalt and obsidian, had gone for aesthetic above integrity. The haematite deposits, Mairon could not fault. He appreciated the convenience. 

But the whole fortress bed was, geologically speaking, a damned mess. 

“A ‘ _damned_ mess’?” Melkor huffed, “Thou persnickety little bitch,” but He laughed aloud. The Vala, fully aware of _everything_ that occurred in His Domain, half reclined in a deep armchair with a game, of sorts, on the desk before Him. 

He listened to the rumblings below, and off to the left—for these chambers lay very deep—and turned a small, gold statuette in His hand. An anatomically perfect figure with a knee-length mane spun from extruded ruby and an expressionless, symmetrical face. Its arms were tucked behind its back. 

Rubbing His thumb up polished gold thighs, Melkor looked at the four-tiered boards before Him. 

The base-level held hundreds of little black pebbles: a nameless, faceless, jumble. On the second tier, there were seven black diamonds carved into horned monsters armed with black axes. The third held only two figures. One was another horned monster with an axe but it had been chased with white gold and the other, a flawless glowing emerald, depicted a humanoid male with a tall pike. 

The fourth tier was empty. 

Melkor leaned forward and held His gold statuette above it. So close, but not yet. No, not yet. Despite the fact that many now called him lord. 

The Vala pulled back the small figure and held it before His eyes. Breathing on the burnished metal, He, again, caressed it with His thumb. Polishing long, golden limbs even brighter. 

Melkor considered that He’d already intervened once and should not again. This time, there were a great many more witnesses. But...He wanted this Maia with a passion that sometimes puzzled, and always overpowered, Him... 

The damn little creature had considerable pride. And a compulsive need to optimize efficiency in everything around it. Authority, or nothing, for this one...as the Vala had known since He first conceived of seducing it away from Aulë. Bedwarmer, alone, could never suffice...a waste of all that drive and skill. 

Maybe...just a little...He breathed power into the figurine in His hand. Just a little. 

An invisible thread flared, pulsating, where it came from the Vala’s wrist and coiled, many times, around the figurine. Its eyes opened, revealing inset, glowing yellow sapphires. 

Melkor polished the gold statuette's thighs with His thumb again, then lathed them, slow and sensual, with His tongue. 

First, Mairon replicated granite. Restructuring molecular matrices, he increased silica levels and artificially reproduced the slow-cooled structure of the stronger igneous rock. Layering sturdy walls of large-grained stone inside empty, fractured reservoirs, he sealed hundreds of leaking fissures. 

Then, he created a new network of vents. Logically branched, not the higglety-pigglety channels that had existed before. 

Great gushes of energy flowed from the forge-spirit. By the time he turned his attention to the floor of the foundry, he felt his power waning. But he wasn’t halfway through what he needed to do. 

And he had no idea how he’d coax the magma back up to its original levels to relieve ever-building pressure and prevent a full blow-out. 

Much to his surprise, two things happened. A sudden, second wind, so to speak, surged within his elements and another spirit touched his fringe. Then a second. Then, more spirits than he could count with his attention focused on forming granite everywhere he could reach. 

Mairon was stretched very thin, indeed. 

He realized his smiths had come to do what they could. They wanted his Vision: he gave them images of the molecular lattices he desired and set them to work transmuting the entire foundry sub-floor to granite. 

He went down. Pulling, pushing, changing, shifting, he strengthened the entire fortress’s substructure by layering beds of granite into the existing basaltic strata. Transmuting vast amounts of obsidian, even some basalt, he secured Utumno’s foundation. Ensured that this would never, ever happen again. 

He stopped when he reached viscous peridotite. It comprised the outermost layer of Arda’s molten mantle, on which its crust floated. Mairon reversed direction, heading upward, toward the cooler, and now hopefully stable, surface. 

Nearly spent. 

Pulling his energy into a cohesive mass, he zoomed, with scorching air, through the newly created vent network. 

And zipped out the cold firebox of his personal blast furnace. Assembling a fana as he emerged, he manifested in a body of flexible, living granite. 

His personal forge was fine, he noted with relief. Protective spells had held. One stony forefinger pointed at the sealed ceramic jar on the high shelf above his work-table. 

“Stay,” Mairon’s voice grated like tectonic plates shifting. The jar was now set there for eternity unless it again felt the touch of his hand. 

He strode for the black, cast-iron gates. 

They’d twisted in their hinges. He lifted a heavy leg. One sharp kick and the gate crashed to the floor. He marched out into the foundry proper. 

“Smother that slag heap with casting sand! Never mind the un-tempered weapon piles, we can re-melt and re-cast,” he barked at siblings both solid and incorporeal. 

Mairon strode toward the crucibles as the others raced to extinguish the burning slag. The floor, topped with hard, compacted dirt, was wet. They’d obviously tried water first and merely sent flame shooting in all directions. Evidenced by soot-blackened walls. 

He found one crucible dangling. Suspended from above by only a quarter of its magically enhanced chains, it had poured out most of its contents. The blast furnace below, drenched in cooling liquid steel, was completely destroyed. Several smiths struggled to contain a spreading puddle of molten metal with ceramic plates hastily mounted on long poles. 

The second crucible threatened to follow the first. It skewed at a dangerous angle but had not yet tipped. Slanted contents had turned muddy red, rather than the bright, glowing yellow of iron at optimum burn-off. It would spill thick but no less destructive. 

“Will it cool,” Mairon snarled at those around the puddle, “Give it everything you’ve got, but keep it contained!” He realized that incorporeal siblings were popping up the newly constructed magma vents, “Shut them after you, stop the airflow, don’t feed the flames!” 

There was nothing to be done for the spilled crucible. Mairon turned all his focus on saving the other one. 

It was huge, and blazing hot...the granite form he wore was not completely immune to heat. If he expanded his size, to hold up the crucible while someone else tried to fix the loose chains above, his composition could crack and fracture. 

And he was so very tired. But there was still much to be done, order to impose, and he gathered what little strength he had left. Knowing it wouldn’t be enough, because the magma was still pooling; immense pressure building moment by moment. 

At least the whole fortress wouldn’t blow now. If nothing else, he’d minimized that potential catastrophe. 

“Someone find a hook and get up there,” gesturing at the catwalk suspended below the soot-blackened ceiling, “to reset the chains while I wrest this bastard level.” He was marginally aware of a rhythmic thumping noise coming from the foundry’s main entry but paid it no mind. 

Mairon gathered every stray molecule he could latch onto, intent on expanding his current body large enough to suit the task at hand. He didn’t notice several smiths, their faces awed and disbelieving, turn toward a towering mountain of banked flame and black skin. As it strode by the smoking slag heap, the smiths who'd formed a bucket line to the mound of casting sand, stopped pouring and turned to gape.

A deep, rumbling voice said, “ **I will hold it up, brother. Step aside.** ” 

Mairon jerked around. 

Had he been a different Maia, he would have shouted in triumph and danced for joy. 

Instead, he said to the looming Balrog, “I’m very glad to see you. Thank you for coming.” Barking over his shoulder, “Nichiet, find me a hook. All speed!” at a gawking smith. Back to the Balrog, “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to lift me onto that catwalk,” Mairon pointed then snapped over his shoulder, “if Nichiet _deigns_ to move his arse.” 

“Coming, master, coming!” the other smith, carrying a long, hooked stoker pike over his head, pelted toward them. 

“We must do better, Nichiet, we really must.” Mairon castigated as he claimed the stoker. “Or we’ll be shoveling slag for the next hundred years.” 

“Yes, master. Forgive me, master Mairon!” 

He pointed at the pool of contaminated iron on the floor, “Make yourself useful, Nichiet.” 

When the Balrog lowered one massive hand and uncurled fingers thicker than a troll’s leg, Mairon got such a surprise: he blinked twice. 

_Cheeeeeep_ _!_ Sang Rat. She waved for him to join her. Chirruping, she patted the nearest huge finger. Her happy warble almost made Mairon smile. 

Then he remembered building pressure and imminent explosion. 

“Welcome, Commander, and well met. You Balrogath wouldn’t, by chance, share an affinity with magma? An ability to control it?” As he stepped into that enormous palm. 

“ **Our cores are magma.** **We bathe in lava and transmute its energy directly through our skin.** ” 

Mairon creaked down into a crouch and tucked the stoker pike between his stone belly and thighs. With his other arm, he hugged a huge finger. “Hold on, Rat, or step down.” 

Rat chose to wrap both arms around the Balrog’s smallest finger. And one leg. And her tail. She trilled, an ecstatic giggle scaling up and down, and rested her cheek against the Commander’s leathery black skin. 

Mairon thought this emotional display excessive. And out of character. But she’d done him a phenomenal service. He remembered to praise, “Well done, my dear, very well done.” 

Rat gave him a beaming grin, showing off all those needle-like fangs, as the Balrog lifted them above his massive, horned head. Mairon returned her grin with his usual compressed smile, the edges of granite lips pulling taut, before he slipped under the handrail and onto the catwalk. 

It creaked, alarmingly, under his weight and the Foundry Master remembered that he was now composed of solid stone. With a great push of flagging strength, he shifted into his preferred biotic fana: golden-brown skin over strong muscles and long bones. Flesh hands worked much better around the stoker pole. 

Close to total exhaustion, the abrupt shift left him unsteady. Mairon braced his naked belly against the handrail and looked down at the lengths of dangling chain. Marshaling wayward flesh, the Foundry Master decided where to start. 

“ **Go with your master, little sister.** ” The Commander urged Rat onto the catwalk after Mairon. With a little scowl, she hopped under the rail onto the suspended walkway. The Balrog’s orange eyes turned to the lop-sided crucible. “ **Are you ready, brother Foundry Master?** ” 

“Quite. And do call me Mairon,” 

“ **Kosomot.** ” 

“A pleasure, Brother Kosomot, I assure you.” Mairon leaned over to hook a chain link with his stoker. It took him two tries. He heard the hair around his face sizzle and saw long strands, frizzled from the heat, drift toward the foundry floor. 

The Balrog sank into a crouch and embraced the tilted crucible. He settled it against his humongous chest. Slow, mindful of the molten steel inside, Kosomot straightened the giant vessel. 

Mairon, despite a fine tremor in his hands, slid his captured link into the appropriate hook protruding just outside the crucible rim. Encouraged, he looked up and selected the next chain; found it too short. “Give me play,” to the smiths on the floor. 

Four smiths raced to barrel sized winches and, amid metallic squeals and crunches, cranked loose excess chain. Mairon slid the second link in place. Six more, his hands grew increasingly unsteady and he fumbled the last two before he got them in place. He ordered, “Draw in the slack," to the smiths at the winches.

Wood groaned and chain clinked as excess lengths drew taut. 

Kosomot stayed in place until the crucible hung in its proper place once more. 

“Lovely.” Mairon breathed. Beside him, Rat sat on the edge of the catwalk, wooden seedbox in her lap, and swung little clawed feet. She chittered. “No, not yet. There’s a more pressing matter; the other crucible can wait.” Raising his voice, “Brother Kosomot, may I impose on you?” 

“ **I’ll straighten the other one,”**

“Not yet.” Mairon gestured to the foundry floor with the hooked stoker, “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to summon the magma? At the rate it’s amassing, it will soon blow.” 

Kosomot blinked up at him. “ **That slipped my mind. Excellent point. Volcanic explosions are a waste of good lava.** ” The Balrog laid his palms flat on the foundry floor. 

Mairon felt him send out his consciousness. Down, down, down past the new vent networks and layers of granite. 

Just as he called to his smiths, “Make sure those vents are closed,” Kosomot began a subharmonic rumble: two distinct, harmonizing tones. They resonated with two of the three types of magma pocketed below. 

Utterly artificial, created by Melkor's indomitable Will, Utumno boasted disparate magmas, with different chemical compositions, that never naturally occurred in the same place.

After long, tense, moments, Mairon felt both basaltic and andesitic magmas respond to the Balrog's call.

As they rose back into their original reservoirs, the foundry's ambient temperature increased. Hot air flowed through vents both open and closed. Inside the intact blast furnace's firebox, there was at first a ruby glow. It brightened to crimson then yellow and finally good white flame began its ripping, rushing song.

The furnace covered in molten steel shot smoke and sparks from tiny gaps around its partially sealed firebox.

Mairon pointed with his stoker, "Shut that off!"

A senior smith called back, "We have. The flappers must be off their hinges,"

"Someone get down there and fix them," 

" **Wait a moment.** " the Balrog rumbled. Kosomot slapped the compact dirt floor with one huge palm. " **Not that way,** ” and the whole foundry shuddered. Hissing sparks died and thick black smoke thinned to a few little tails, “ **Good rock, flow on,** ” as if speaking to a herd of cattle. His orange-ember eyes flicked up to Mairon on the catwalk, “ **That will give you time to fix the vents.** **You want the thin stuff, too?”** Referring to the rhyolitic magma. 

“No, thank you. Far too volatile. Keeps wanting to explode.” Mairon found himself sweating profusely and the edges of his vision blurred. The fine tremor in his hands became a definite shake...maddening unsteadiness... 

“ **Is that enough, or do you want the chambers full?** ” 

“That, brother, is excellent. Always leave a bit of room for expansion.” Mairon, sending out his own consciousness, experienced a curious sensation: that unsteady tremble had invaded his thighs. It spread to all his muscles. He felt...weak. 

But he pushed on, sending out another surge of will, to block, with solid granite, several channels he'd created to the magma pockets. Trapping molten rock and ensuring it stayed where Kosomot had called it. Then Mairon pushed harder still: he closed the broken flappers in the vents that led to the damaged blast furnace.

His vision greyed out. 

Too much energy expended; it undid him. 

Swaying where he stood, Mairon’s shaking fingers clutched the rail. The hooked stoker slipped from his other hand and clattered to the foundry floor. He garbled something at Rat.

She looked around and shrilled with alarm. Springing to her feet, she wrapped around his calves; trying to keep him upright. 

Kosomot pushed to his full height and reached out a huge hand just in time. 

Mairon, seemingly in slow motion, toppled over the railing into Kosomot’s open palm. Rat, still hugging his legs, went with him. 

The Foundry Master landed on his side, with a soft moan. His legs hung free and so did Rat. She tried to sling a leg over Mairon’s calves but his flesh was slick with sweat and gravity pulled her down. She ended up with her arms locked together around his knees. Little feet dangling. 

Kosomot picked her up by her tail, earning a ferocious scowl and a squeal, and placed her at her master’s side. 

Rat patted Mairon’s lean, golden cheek. Yellow sapphire eyes cracked open and he babbled something incomprehensible at her. 

The smiths shouted with dismay. A cluster of them hurried to the Balrog. 

“Give him here,” 

“Give us the master,” 

“We’ll see to him,” 

Rat railed a denial and enclosed Mairon’s head with her little body. They’d touch him over her dead flesh! She snapped tiny fangs at the air. 

Kosomot’s mouth twisted, “ **’** **Tisn’t** **good, this,** ” to Rat. His attention shifted to the smiths, “ **Be about your business.** ” 

They growled at him. 

A bolt of thought erupted off Mairon: _Clear the floor; you_ _know the rules_ _!_ _Clean your tools. Only sprue in the recycling bins._ _Don’t_ _eat in here. Sweep up that sand before someone slips. Who took my little hammer?_

Rat chittered: the master was delirious with exhaustion. She pulled back and patted his cheek again, quite tenderly. Crooning over him, Rat sang a little tune of rest and restoration. 

The smiths ducked their faces, hiding compressed smiles, and one stepped forward. “Best to get the master away to his bed. We’ll finish here. But, Commander, if you’d come back and help us with that last crucible,” 

“ **He will not.** ” issued from a sylphlike sprite who glided towards them. Rivulets of pure white fire flowed under dark skin and plumes of smoke, resembling forward-swept horns, hung permanently suspended over its narrow head. 

“ **Lungorthin,** ” Kosomot imbued the name with a thousand years' worth of scorn. 

“ **This is blatant insubordination, Commander. Confine yourself to the guardroom until I can consult with the Master.** ” 

“ **Have the lava pools refilled?** ” Kosomot asked with pointed sarcasm. He curled his massive fingers protectively around both Rat and Mairon. 

“ **Never you mind. I’ll have a great deal to say to Himself about your attitude. If I have my way, you’ll stand the main gates, hissing in the snow, for eternity.”**

Out of the corner of one eye, Kosomot saw the smiths turning various tools— hammers, tongs, and iron hooks—by their legs. It sobered the commander. 

Despite the captain’s current fana, Lungorthin commanded a considerable molecular Presence. And ruthless strength of Will. He’d cut a devastating swathe through the Lesser Ranked smiths without a moment’s remorse. 

“ **Let me find a safe place,** ” 

“ **Just drop him!** ” Lungorthin snarled, “ **Right now!** ” 

Those hammers, tongs, and iron hooks came up. 

Rat peered through Kosomot’s huge fingers. For a spare moment, she chewed her lower lip until it bled between needle-like fangs. One little hand found the invisible thread that led from thin air straight to her heart. It thrummed, with a rhythmic beat, between trembling fingers. 

“ **I said drop him! Fall in, Commander, right now!** ” 

Another incoherent burst vibrated on the air: _Talcum that casting bed. Ready the pour. Anneal that, it needs cold work. I hope my tea’s still hot..._

Rat tugged hard. Scintillating purple unlight pulsed along the energy strand and disappeared through a soot-blackened wall. 

The smiths spread out in a semi-circle, edging toward the Balrog captain. 

“ **Don’t even think it.** ” Glowing white eyes, flickering with barely controlled rage, swept the approaching line. “ **I’ll rip you all limb from limb and piss fire** **through** **the holes.** ” 

“ **That implies you have something to piss from,** ” Kosomot couldn’t restrain himself, “ **like an animal.** ” 

“ **You** **insolent bastard,** ” open flame burst to life in the air around Lungorthin’s head, “ **I’ll pull off your horns and shove them** **so far** **down your throat** **that** **you'll** **find yourself with** **two arseholes. Like an animal.** ” 

The air around Lungorthin buzzed, and an eggy, sulfurous stench enveloped the captain’s sylphlike body as he prepared to shift. 

Kosomot cast one eye over the area, looking for a safe place to deposit his burden. Somewhere neither Mairon nor Rat would be trampled when the Balrogs came to blows...because the commander had had enough of Lungorthin's shit. He would take no more.

Only one being noticed a bubble of energy emerge from a soot-covered wall down the length of the foundry floor. Understandable, since it was transparent and only she looked for it. 

It had a certain gait, as if it walked...prowled might be more accurate...toward them. Within that bubble, reality warped. Images viewed through it wavered like heat mirage. Power thrummed around it. 

Rat whined in relief against Mairon’s sweat-drenched forehead. She licked hot skin and smoothed the crispy threads of burnt hair around his face. 

She whispered into his ear: Himself had come. Come for him. 


	7. Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The earthquakes are over, but the aftershocks continue...
> 
> Here's a chapter in which Balrogs come to blows, Melkor makes a Definitive Move, and Vole gets his own adventure without ever leaving Mairon's quarters.

Part Seven: Aftershocks

Lungorthin’s flesh rippled and the nimbus of white flames surrounding him exploded outward in all directions. He became a column of blazing light. Soot and ash whooshed around that glowing pillar. 

Kosomot rolled Mairon off his palm into the arms of five waiting smiths. Rat leapt to the ground. She turned toward Melkor fast approaching and dropped first to her knees and then onto her face. 

The commander barely had time to straighten and step away from his more fragile siblings before the captain gave a bestial roar. Lungorthin, brandishing splayed black talons, launched at him. 

Kosomot dug his hooves into the compacted dirt floor and braced himself against that headlong charge. 

They met like a clash of mountains. The commander slid, gouging through the wet dirt but, shifting his weight, he found a hoof-hold. Kosomot dug in, recovered his balance, then surged forward. He drove Lungorthin back toward the foundry doors. 

They grappled, swaying. In a moment, it was an all-out-brawl with scratching and biting; horn pulling and eye-gouging; belly punches and hoof kicks. Long black talons ripped into leathery hide and liquid fire wept from open wounds. 

The smiths who held Mairon backed toward the nearest wall. Not at the same pace and they nearly dropped him. 

Mairon half opened an eye. Enough to focus on the growling, snarling mountains who lurched across the floor. His body went rigid and he slurred, “Nod in mah f-found....nod in...mah..”

The unseen bubble of energy prowled straight into the fight. Only then did the smiths perceive its Presence. The Balrogs wrenched apart as an even greater monster coalesced between them.

Solid black, massive and muscular, dripping fire and violet ice from a dozen horns. Four arms and four hands, both sides glistening with platinum barbs, hauled the fire-demons apart.

It had no face. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, just smooth black horns spiraling, like a living helm, around a perfect oval head. Spiked frills ran across its shoulders. Onyx skin bulged and flowed as the horrific creature set-to. 

Mairon’s bleary eyes lifted to the hideous form. They widened. He breathed out, inaudibly under the fight, “ _Beautiful,_ ” before his eyes flickered shut. A deep sigh slipped out and his muscles lost all tension.

He Who Arises in Might laid into the Balrogs. Churning, twisting, Melkor delivered silent, simultaneous blows to both fire demons. Smooth, lightning-fast, crippling strikes fell on all sides. Precise, with a perfect understanding of unimaginable strength, the Vala moved with a terrible, violent grace.

Lungorthin bent double when two fists landed in his belly, then bowed back as the heel of one hand crashed up under his jaw. The other clamped around a forward-swept horn. It yanked him down, face first, to the ground. The Fuligin Terror nimbly stepped out of the way. Lungorthin hit with a spectacular thud and all across the foundry, anvils bounced on their bases. 

Even as Melkor felled Lungorthin, giant fingers curled behind Kosomot’s neck. They pulled him into a brutal face punch. The Balrog’s massive head snapped back, and he half spun. One hand closed over his shoulder, pushing him further off balance, while the second whipped under his bent knee and pulled it out from under him.

Kosomot toppled backward. With a tremendous crash, his broad back hit the dirt. Anvils bounced again. A great clatter came from the piles of finished weapons and steel lengths as, by the hundreds, they slid from their piles. 

“Stay down.” Melkor’s unmistakable voice sounded about a foot out from the great beast’s featureless face. “I warn ye both now, stay down.” He spoke with a terrifying calm, “Or I will take ye apart.” 

Kosomot, unconsciously struggling to regain his hooves, looked up. His vision, hazed with crimson rage, cleared and he collapsed back onto the foundry floor. Both hands lifted in surrender. 

Lungorthin clawed great gouges in the compressed dirt as he struggled to get a knee under him. He gave a low roar. Dirt flew and white flame gushed. 

Melkor kicked him onto his side, “Captain, stay down.” Both left hands pointed at the ground. A surge of Will lashed out. Crackling energy engulfed Lungorthin; for a moment, he writhed in agony. 

“ **Yes, Master!** ” he bellowed. 

Melkor rearranged His flesh. One moment a terrible black monster, and the next an angelic humanoid male...the Dark Vala glanced from captain to commander, “I expect better of mine officers. I expect discipline.” 

Ashamed, Kosomot jerked his eyes down. 

Lungorthin lay smoking, still glowing with white-flamed rage. 

With a last, dismissive rake of steel-blue eyes, Melkor turned away. Shrinking as he glided over to the smiths. Still huge, but no longer Balrog-huge, He leaned down to look directly into Mairon’s unresponsive features. 

“Hast thou forgotten that thou art a mere Maia?” Melkor reached out and traced his fingertips over the crisp, spiky hair framing the Foundry Master’s face. 

Mairon cracked open his eyes. An ashen face hovered over his own. Steel-blue eyes intent and focused on him. 

It took him a moment to understand who hovered over him. Melkor! Then he realized something else... 

His Vala’s undivided attention—all his. 

How he’d missed this...he’d never it admit to anyone, not even himself...but he’d missed it so much. Felt its lack like physical pain. A gnawing ache deep in his being. A longing without surcease. 

Now, it was his again. His, alone. 

Without a puzzled, disapproving frown...Aulë had always frowned when Mairon tried to express how he felt, or explain his reasoning. Always missed the point, or ignored it. 

Cut him short and told him he should not think, or feel, the way he did. 

Never listened. Not after the first short moments. 

But Melkor...Melkor listened. Melkor let him finish. 

Melkor _encouraged_ him. 

Alone, the two of them always alone...clandestine meetings deep in the woods or in the tunnels far below Aulë’s foundry...face to face, like this, knowledge flowing intense between them. 

Oh, how he’d missed it! 

Without sound, he mouthed, “Master.” 

The fingertips skimming over his temple stopped and a thumb settled on his chin. Melkor rumbled, “Little fool.” 

A faint smile pulled at the edges of Mairon’s lips and he pushed his chin against Melkor’s thumb. Savoring the heavy weight on his skin. 

With a last, deep sigh, Mairon passed out again. 

Much to the surprise of the spellbound forge-Umaiar who stood frozen while the Balrogs’ contested their fury, the Master slid His hands under the Foundry Master’s long, golden limbs and scooped him up. 

Rat, face-down and covered with sand from Lungorthin’s final fit of temper, twisted her head in time to see the Master deftly maneuver Mairon to His chest. One huge, pale hand settled that copper-topped head on a broad shoulder while the other slid under a muscled arse. 

Holding the Foundry Master as if he weighed nothing at all. 

Melkor turned to depart from whence He came. Dark blue eyes shuttered and face unreadable, He paused a moment to nudge Rat with unshod toes. 

The force sent her flipping over; sand sprayed across the smiths’ boots. 

“Get that thing gone from his quarters. Now.” Melkor, voice cold with displeasure, issued an implacable command. 

Rat gave a tiny cheep. She rolled to her feet and dipped into her squatting curtsy. 

He directed over his shoulder at the Balrogs, “Ye will attend Me in the throne hall at the midday.” The Vala strode off. 

Without care, He walked directly through the spilled, cooling iron around the destroyed blast furnace and left smoking footprints in His wake. As Melkor approached the soot-blackened wall, he transmuted into pure energy: a roiling shadow, with a bubble of dull, flickering fire encased in its center, that passed through solid stone. 

The Foundry filled with profound silence. 

Rat grabbed her tail and danced a little circle in the churned sand. Until Lungorthin abruptly rolled up onto his knees and reached out a huge, talon-tipped hand to slap her, crush her, into the foundry floor. 

Rat ran to preserve her flesh. 

Lungorthin’s fast blow just missed the tip of her fleeing tail. The foundry floor shook and anvils again jumped and rattled against their bases. More unfinished weapons clattered and tumbled from their already scattered piles. 

The smiths, parting so Rat could dart behind them, glared at the captain. They closed ranks. 

Lungorthin got his hooves under him. After sweeping an infuriated glare over Mairon’s smiths, he spat a gob of flaming white magma between Kosomot’s spread ankles and clomped away. The foundry floor tremored with his passage. Sand vibrated up almost a whole foot in the air, then Lungorthin ducked through the main doors and was gone. 

Rumor would fly, Rat thought, faster than a vampire throughout the fortress. By mealtime, every Maiar but the lowliest and most isolated would have heard something of this. Lifting the tip of her tail high, she shook it above her slick black head. 

Then she remembered the commander. Poking her head out from between a smith’s knees, up under a heavy leather apron, Rat chittered. 

Kosomot sat up. Huge hands settled on huge knees. Flickering orange eyes narrowed, “ **Not for a while, I imagine.** ” 

Rat chattered at the smiths. 

“Oh, aye,” said a senior smith. She bowed to the Balrog, “Bring us your axe, Commander. We’ll get started on a mold. If it’s in pieces, bring them all...but not the haft. We won’t need that.” 

Kosomot looked at the spilled crucible and the solidifying puddle of cooling steel. He shifted forward onto his knees and, slipping one talon down into the sand, popped free the small pond of setting metal. Then he took it between both hands and, with a certain suppressed violence, bent it in half. The core was still malleable and Kosomot, scowling when it didn’t snap, dropped it. 

“ **Fuck.** ” He looked at the dangling crucible. “ **Might as well.** ” Cupping the great vessel in a massive palm, he pushed it level. 

One smith rushed to collect Mairon’s fallen stoker then scaled the rope ladder up to the catwalk. Four others ran to the winches. 

Rat, mindful of the Master’s order, looked between the Balrog and the foundry’s main doors. 

“ **Do** **your** **duty, little sister. We will speak anon.** ” 

She curtsied, then rushed forward to pat Kosomot’s nearest hoof with both hands before she flew, faster than one might imagine, from the foundry on madly churning legs. 

Mairon’s Suite. 

Vole sat up. For a moment, he patted himself all over. But all his fleshy bits were intact... He climbed to his feet. 

Then he remembered throwing his chest across Melkor’s foot and collapsed in a heap. 

Why the Master hadn’t snapped his neck or wrenched off his head, he couldn’t understand. He also remembered the...somewhat...Superior sibling in the master’s big bed and the Vala’s oblivion spell. 

Vole darted onto the dais and scrambled up the bedclothes to find Etuth buried under a mound of pillows and the heavy, embroidered coverlet. Only his nose and mouth exposed, but from the even breath, he’d returned to normal rest. 

The Lesser Umaia heaved a deep, relieved sigh and resumed his vigil on the big bed. 

Propping his back against one four-poster, Vole realized that he’d found himself a precarious Place. If the Master was going to appear without warning whenever He liked: a potentially dangerous Place. But Rat dwelt here, and Lord Mairon had given him sweeties, fresh meat, and crunchy bread crusts...not quite an even balance but better than most Lesser Umaiar could claim. 

The “clock” bells chimed five times. Vole yawned and wiggled his back against the wooden pole. Just as his eyes closed, someone pounded on the double doors in the receiving room. 

Vole groaned and turned to the noise. 

_Fast break for the Foundry Master._ That same someone projected through the closed doors. 

Vole slid from the bed. Grumbling, for who in all Utumno broke their fast _now_? Most were just settling down to rest—if their flesh needed rest. 

Most Umaiar who needed to fuel a fana existed on a single daily meal: usually cold and never appetizing. Only the Highest Ranked, such as Langon Herald, could command regular meals of the best foodstuffs. In Utumno, Rank dictated everything. 

Yet another reason to stay despite Melkor’s surprise appearances. Lord Mairon warranted fast-break and sup delivered to his quarters. 

The silent call came again as Vole opened the bedchamber door. 

Behind him, Etuth sat bolt upright, scattering pillows across the embroidered coverlet. He breathed, “Sarf,” and yanked aside a bed drape in time see Vole’s back disappear. 

Etuth scrambled from under the heavy coverlet and stumbled off the dais. Lurching across the carpet, he made it to the doorway just as Vole, standing on tiptoe, reached for beautiful bronze door latches cast to look like undulating serpents. 

“No, don’t! ‘Tis Sarf!” in his ragged, torn-parchment whisper. 

Vole froze. 

_Foundry Master?_

He backed away from the door and turned. 

Trembling like a leaf in strong wind, Etuth clutched the door edge in both hands. He gnawed his lower lip. “What should we do?” in a bare whisper. 

Vole stared at him, nonplussed. How should he know? He’d only been here one night, and he was just a Lesser... 

But something _had_ to be done. 

Because power surged beyond the closed hallway doors...a deconstructing Song plainly felt...as whoever was outside shed their flesh. 

Vole wrung his hands and wondered what Rat would do... 

Etuth suddenly stepped out of the bedroom. Both arms spread, he whispered a fast tune. Not so much shifting his flesh, as letting it fall into a pattern imposed over his own...Etuth’s hair shimmered. The two copper bands which made him look like a skunk expanded. His hair became a simmering, copper-red. 

He shot up to Mairon’s imposing height and his shoulders broadened to the Foundry Master’s solid, muscled breadth. The seams of his plain linen tunic sighed and split. 

His dull, dusky skin became a vibrant, gold-tinged bronze. At the same time, Etuth’s whole face altered: assumed perfect proportions until it became the same angular, masculine beauty of Mairon’s preferred fana. 

Vole stared. Not right, just not right, taking on a Superior spirit’s guise...especially his master’s! 

Etuth’s golden eyes focused on something behind Vole’s back. A frightened expression transfixed his face and he gasped. Vole couldn’t picture Lord Mairon doing either...but then he turned to see thin trails of black smoke or shadow, stream through both keyholes, and out from between the door join. 

Vole’s apprehension and confusion turned to sheer outrage. 

Damned bloodsucker! How dare he invade a Superior Maia’s private domain? If the lord or Rat were here, they’d soon teach Sarf a measure of respect. 

Vole decided he knew what Rat, were she present, would do. 

She wouldn’t stand idle, half panicked, she’d take _action_. 

He remembered the glowing network of psychic tripwires Mairon had revealed during last night’s sup. Quick black eyes darted around the room. As he strove to recall exactly what he’d seen, Vole whistled at Etuth. 

“This fana, the Master forced it on me, I thought...I thought it might scare Sarf,” Etuth’s fast torn-parchment whisper explained, “Brother Mairon is powerful...” 

That pinched, anxious expression looked...very...wrong...on a face that so resembled his new master’s. Vole averted his gaze. 

Warbling at Etuth, Vole hopped left and reached out a hand to where he remembered a glittering strand stretched up to the globe of exploding vapor. 

Silent shadow twisted into a whirlwind in the center of the room, between its occupants. 

Vole’s searching fingertip found a single thread of energy and the whole network suddenly glowed. 

Etuth gasped again, his imitation-yellow-sapphire eyes darting from one suspended globe to another as they shimmered into sight. 

Vole, finding three strands within his reach, traced them up to the ceiling. As he identified which he wanted, he warbled at the other Umaia. 

Etuth drew himself to Mairon’s full height and struggled to make his face smooth, calm and controlled. He tugged off his split linen tunic, letting it fall to the floor, and straightened wide golden shoulders. 

The silent cyclone spun up into a tall column. 

Etuth demanded, in a decent mimic of the Foundy Master’s modulated, richer-than-cream voice, “What do you want?” 

Vole’s little fingers closed around the correct glowing thread. The sphere suspended above the main doors vibrated ever so slightly. 

The column pulled itself into a humanoid shape and a moment later another redhead stood in the suite. Another imitation Mairon...this one with curved, pearly fangs peeking behind a triumphant smirk. 

“Your flesh, brother,” this voice, too, sounded like the forge-spirit's but marred with sibilant triumph. “Why won’t you just die?” 

Vole chattered. 

As Sarf spun to the noise, Etuth stepped back into the bedchamber and banged the doors shut. 

Vole yanked the thread down and forward. 

Its energy sphere swung with the motion. 

Vole disbursed his fana as fast as he could while the globe arced into the center of the room. His disembodied spirit flew under the nearby dining table; seeking cover out of instinct rather than need. 

The glowing, golden sphere struck Sarf’s chest. It exploded into a luminous ball of dense, white fire and rank, heavy smoke. 

Hellish flame engulfed the vampire and he screamed...oh how he screamed! 

Copper-red hair went up like flash paper. It stunk. Long, seared threads puffed in every direction. The vampire’s black and gold embroidered robes caught and burned, surrounding the flailing form with an orange and yellow nimbus. 

For a moment, Sarf looked like a wall torch flaring out of control. Then he had the presence of mind to transmute back to shadow. A black mass darkened the center of that ball of white fire. It wobbled then darted, trailing little tails of fire, toward the hallway doors. 

Heat scorched the carved wood, charring its face sooty black, and the bronze snake latches softened and drooped into shapeless teardrops as the vampire streamed through every open crack available. 

The cloud of phosphine burnt itself out. It left Mairon’s receiving room full of dense, choking smoke. An irregular scorch hole in what had once been a beautiful plush carpet and one side of the dining table reduced to crunchy black charcoal. 

Vole coalesced into flesh again. His first breath left him hacking, and he climbed up onto the partially destroyed table to get out of sinking clouds of smoke. 

He surveyed with devastation with an initial flush of triumphant satisfaction. Then with apprehension...whatever would the master say...what would Rat say...when they saw this horrible mess? 

The walls had long sooty streaks...a big burn spot blackened the ceiling...and nasty, nasty smoke everywhere! Vole coughed out a desperate bit of Tune and waved both little hands at the heavy, billowing cloud. 

Sluggishly, it flowed down toward the hearth. A draft from the open chimney stack caught and sucked it up. 

Vole kept waving and stuttering Song. 

When Etuth opened the bedroom door to see what had happened, he was again small with skunk striped red-and-brown hair. He looked, with one blue eye and one muddy gold eye, at the lazily flowing smoke, then at the charred furniture and carpet. 

“M-m-master's b-balls,” before he, too, started to cough. Grabbing up his ruined tunic, he covered both mouth and nose before he waved the smoke up the chimney. 

This is how Rat found them when she arrived several minutes later. 

They knew it was her because, when the outside latch came off in her hands and the door swung open, she cursed worse than Utumno’s most bad-tempered troll wrangler. The inside latch clanged as it hit the floor. 

Rat poked her head into the receiving chamber and gaped, speechless, at the sooty, smoky mess. 

“Sarf was here,” Etuth forced his ragged whisper through the linen over his mouth and nose, “Brother Mairon’s trap...it was something!” 

Vole froze and fell silent. He sat on a tiny patch of uncharred wood and stared at her with huge, uncertain black eyes. 

Rat’s head turned toward Vole. Her mouth snapped shut. Then she nodded, slowly and just once, at him. 

He coughed his way into a big grin. 

Rat rolled her eyes, then glared at the mess. Waving her hand before her face, she Sang at the smoke, speeding its trip up the chimney and out the air ducts. Fresher air swept in from the hallway and helped the process along. 

Etuth disappeared into the bedroom and then reappeared with his breeches in place and his boots in hand. As he stepped into those boots, Rat noticed that they were very nice, indeed. 

Lacing the tops, Etuth said, “I must go...we’re in the middle of a batch of shields...” 

Rat scurried to the side table and checked the ginger cake...its top was a crackled black. Grimacing, she turned to watch Etuth slink toward the doors. 

She chittered at his back. 

He stopped and half turned, “Would he want a pair of boots?” 

Rat nodded. 

“Thank him for sup...and the use of his bed...and...I’ll see what I can do about boots...leather is in high demand...we’re churning out shields as fast as we can...” shrugging into his quilted wool jerkin, he left. 

Rat nodded in satisfaction then went to inspect the burn hole in the carpet. 

Vole chattered, asking where their master was. 

Rat cheeped. 

Vole’s eyes went huge. 

Rat gestured at the horrible state of the room and announced that it was a good thing the Master had taken their lord...it gave them a chance to get _some_ of this cleaned up before Mairon returned. 

“Fast break for the Foundry Mas...ter...what in Himself’s arse happened here?” an Umaia from the kitchens, who bore Mairon’s usual morning tray, stood in the open doors and looked around with four astounded eyes. 

Rat pattered over and reached up for the pewter salver. It held a bowl of hot soup and half a small bread loaf. In no uncertain terms, Rat chittered that firstly, the food was late: it was supposed to arrive _before_ five bells, not after—kitchen knew that. Secondly, nothing had happened here and if the other Umaia knew what was good for them, they’d forget they ever saw it. 

Turning away, she kicked the door closed behind her. It stayed mostly shut and that was good enough.

Looking around at Vole, Rat lifted the tray and announced it was time to eat. 

Mairon would never approve of wasting food. 

Vole climbed down from the table as Rat set the tray on the floor. She ripped off a large strip of bread crust and then offered him half. She plonked down on her arse. 

As she dipped her piece in the thick pork soup, Rat announced that they’d conscript help from the common rooms after they ate. Find a new carpet. Scrub the walls...and the ceiling...she heaved a great sigh.

Once Mairon assumed his Rightful Place, she thought, this sort of shite would surely stop.

Melkor would see to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mouse finished this chapter today. They say never edit while you're producing new content, but a mouse says, "HA! We die like writers!" and warns you that there will be tinkering while she starts chapter eight.
> 
> As the international situation becomes increasingly harrowing, please, please, please keep isolation protocols. Please remember to disinfect your keyboards and cell phone cases. Just...just do the best you can to stay safe. We are doomed to live in an Interesting Time, but that doesn't mean we're doomed. Where there's life, there's hope, dear friends, and many good people doing wonderful, generous things from their true and loving hearts.
> 
> Our healthcare providers are doing their best, and right now must be under immense stress: please take a moment to send your positive energy out for their continued well-being. They, and the unsung heroes working public service jobs, are the ones who will keep the world going. Keep them in your thoughts.
> 
> Love your loved ones with a brighter spark.
> 
> I hope these two chapters provide a little distraction and some enjoyment...


	8. Interim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Repercussions are still rippling out from those darn earthquakes.
> 
> Here's a chapter in which Mairon gleans his first inkling of what Melkor desires of him. Rat and Vole, with some help, clean up a right mess. And get their first inkling of an approaching Power Shift in Utumno's long-standing hierarchy.

Part Eight: Interim

Idyll: 

An unfamiliar sensation woke Mairon. Four cool points smoothed over his throat. They trailed down hot skin toward his chest. 

Closed eyes slitted open. He saw a narrow band of perfect darkness. Heard almost complete silence: broken by the soft rush of his own breath...and a deeper, resonant rush somewhere behind. 

A stream of chill air, carrying the sharp, pristine scent of a deep winter’s night, slipped over his shoulder. It felt lovely. 

He became aware of a two-beat rhythm, thud-thump, thud-thump, thud-thump, against his back. His heart had adopted the rhythm; it pumped in time. 

He was exhausted. He hurt. A completely alien state for a Maia who could shed and reform flesh at will. 

The long muscles in his arms and legs ached. His whole back throbbed. Pain crawled up his nape and curled inside his too-tight skull. 

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to move. Mairon shifted, irritably, against the soft surface beneath his hip and the much harder one behind his back and shoulder. 

Wandering points traced his collarbone then flattened into cool pressure over his breast. He sighed with pleasure. 

“Be still, little one,” murmured the next winter-cold breeze over his shoulder. 

Mairon inhaled hard. That velvet-timbered voice, deep and resonant, he recognized it immediately. Leaden muscles responded, slow and sluggish, and he lifted unsteady fingers to touch the flat weight on his chest. 

It was a hand: a large one with prominent tendons. Shock rang through his heavy body. Melkor! 

“Lord,” he forced out, “my Lord.” 

The Master hummed in his ear, “Be still, my cunning Thû. Thou hast expended a good portion of thy reserves.” 

Ah, yes, the foundry sub-floor, and Utumno’s underlying structure...he’d pushed great gushes of his native energy into creating all that granite. 

Uncharacteristic doubt flashed across Mairon’s mind, “Stable? Safe? My... the... the foundry?” 

The solid bulk under him shook. Breath fluttered over his shoulder. Melkor’s voice, when it came, vibrated with suppressed laughter. He murmured, “ _My_ foundry is again productive, despite thy brothers’ little spat.” 

Melkor’s thumb stroked Mairon’s chest. It swept a flat nipple then returned to circle it. The Maia ignored the way sensitive flesh pulled into a tight, little peak. 

Fragmented memory played before Mairon’s inner eye. He thought, _If that was a ‘little spat’, then at what cost all-out contention between two_ _colossi_ _like Kosomot and Lungorthin?_

Despite Melkor’s assurance, he could not relax. 

“The fortress?” Anxiety tightened his whole body and dull aches became sharp twinges. 

“My Seat is secure, thanks to thee, little one. But, when thou art hale and strong, we shall have words. ‘Damned mess,’ indeed.” 

Mairon murmured, “Basalt and obsidian...Master...” he fell silent: one could not ask a Vala what He’d been thinking! The Maia flinched, and hurt anew. Sore muscles protested. Pain seemed to penetrate right down to his bones. 

The hand on his breast moved. Cool fingertips trailed up his throat again, smoothing the tense column before they settled over Mairon’s compressed lips. 

“Hush now, precious. We will debate it anon.” Melkor’s thumb stroked the curve of his jaw. 

Mairon murmured behind Melkor’s fingers, but it didn’t impede the Vala’s comprehension. He replied, “I, too, miss our conversations. We shall soon resume them. Thou hast labored strenuously and require rest. _My_ foundry,” Melkor’s forefinger tapped his lips, “is well-ordered and bountiful. Mine armory nigh overflowing. Thou hast earned thy Place amidst my most useful Maiar. Thou hast earned respite.” 

Mairon experienced a sudden, curious warmth. It blossomed deep inside his chest and spread, on gentle waves, down into his belly. 

Like a perfect, ringing note, profound satisfaction filled him. Giddy pleasure made him almost incoherent. Useful, such a simple word, and yet from Melkor’s mouth...it resonated deep into his esse, echoing through the center of his being. Unruly, all-encompassing emotion vibrated through flesh and spirit alike. 

Mairon felt both laughter and tears rise. His throat contracted, trapping the laugh, and both eyelids snapped closed to staunch the tears. Trembling from head to toe, he sought, in vain, after a modicum of his usual stringent self-control. He almost forgot the subdued ache inhabiting his flesh. 

Mairon quivered in Melkor’s loose embrace. 

Since his dimly remembered genesis, that first moment of self-awareness, he’d _felt_ his Purpose. Anticipated the bliss that achieving it must bring...only to subsist in Aulë’s Household and Halls...failing, over and over, to experience anything but tepid approval. Never allowed the free rein, the authority, to implement methods he knew would succeed... 

Aulë constantly urged him to compromise, to tolerate lower standards, to value his siblings’ _feelings_ over concrete and quantifiable results. To be forever _less_ than his full potential. 

“I desire,” Mairon’s voice fractured behind Melkor’s fingertips. He fell silent. A deep breath, “My Lord, I desire only to Serve you to the...the best of my ability.” with one slight waver. 

“Thou hast, precious, and thou shall again.” Lips skimmed his temple. “Now rest.” The fingertips at his mouth withdrew and meandered down his throat again. 

Mairon let himself drift. Distantly aware that Melkor pressed closer: trapping him betwixt the Vala’s muscular body and a huge palm at his opposing hip. Light fingers traced his sternum before settling, flat, over his belly. 

All tension fled and, with it, most of the pain. 

Melkor traced his stomach. Smoothed one angular hipbone where it arced under golden skin and then His hand wandered, with surprising delicacy, between Mairon’s thighs. 

Very puzzling. 

He frowned, confused, when Melkor’s fingers sought his penis. Mairon considered the organ almost superfluous...nearly useless...nothing but a convenient tool to rid his system of one pot of tea and make room for the next. 

Melkor breathed, “Smooth little Maia,” into his ear, “smoother than silk. I knew thou wouldst be,” the Master enclosed him in a cool palm and thorough fingers explored that superfluous length from its root to its rounded tip. 

Mairon’s next breath caught and held. An unexpected surge of physical pleasure interwove with lingering fulfillment. Exquisite sensations melded. 

The combined tide was all-consuming. 

Mairon released pent air, slow and silent, as he assessed the next wave. A sensual flutter quivered in his chest and shivered down his thighs; growing exponentially stronger. 

He still ached but could only focus on his body’s unexpected reaction to Melkor’s touch. 

That strange bit of flesh engorged with hot blood and suddenly became intensely hyper-sensitive. Mairon, mildly surprised, felt it stiffen and grow rigid. 

A visceral thrill cascaded along his spine. It pooled low in his belly and spread tendrils along his entire nervous system. Every muscle tautened. 

A moan rose in his throat; Mairon swallowed it. 

Behind him, Melkor rumbled. His fingers sank into Mairon’s hip. The other, exploring hand withdrew. Mairon’s freed length flipped up against his clenched stomach. 

The Master shifted again; He tucked Mairon to His whole length. Supporting the Maia’s smaller body with thigh, hip, and chest. 

Melkor took him in hand again, now in a masterful grip, and stroked harder. 

Mairon bit back a low gasp. 

The Vala’s fingers slid all the way down and gathered up the tandem spheres which Mairon had dismissed as just another useless appendage. 

Melkor messaged them until they, too, tightened and throbbed between his legs. 

Mairon experienced an altogether different kind of ache. 

This one...thrilled. It made his standing length yearn for the return of that big hand, those strong fingers, and their rhythmic manipulation. 

But Melkor rolled both tender spheres in His fingertips, ran His thumb over each in turn, and gave them a squeeze. The Master tugged. Warmth flowered and Mairon felt the soft sac pulse and swell. 

His whole body filled with frenetic heat. Restless energy invaded his muscles and his heart skipped a beat. Its rhythm redoubled. The blood coursing through his veins burned like molten lava. 

It raced through him, unbelievably hot, until his fingers and toes felt afire. Twisting tension clenched his belly and Mairon bit back another gasp. The Lessers called them balls...didn’t they? He’d never imagined they could produce such intense sensation. 

Melkor tugged them again, roughly, before He turned His attention back to Mairon’s yearning erection. With the first glide of big fingers up the standing length, the Maia’s breath locked in his lungs. Only to resume in fast, hard pants. Mairon pushed back into Melkor’s cool, supporting body. 

His own trembled and shook. 

“Now, finally, thou dost understand,” Melkor hummed into Mairon’s ear. “Thou dost want. Long have I waited, little one, for thy complete surrender.” 

Mairon couldn’t stop himself, he arched violently into Melkor’s hand. The spastic motion made his muscles ache and protest. Contrasting stimuli met and mingled: the nagging ache submerged beneath piercing hunger. 

Yes, oh, yes, he wanted... 

But what he wanted, he could not define, other than Melkor not stop touching him. Never break this strange and intimate connection... 

His nerves fired at triple speed. Desire pulsed from his belly and balls. Mairon gasped after breath and his head tipped into what he thought might be Melkor’s shoulder. His hips pushed forward, seeking more friction, seeking the rhythm, and harder pressure... 

Melkor stroked him again. Long, fast pulls up hot, taut skin...Mairon undulated again, seeking whatever sensation, whatever contact, he could get. It was sublime, this gnawing hunger...this building _need_... 

Mairon groped for Melkor’s forearm. He clutched flexing muscle and a burst of pure bliss broke in his chest. Such strength, such power, holding him firmly in place while Melkor did as he wanted... 

“Master,” on a bare, soundless, breath. 

“Yes, my Thû, my little Maia, let it flow. Let me teach thee,” 

Mairon arched again and this low moan slipped out unchecked. 

“Let go, precious. Submit. Give me what is mine.” 

The spiral of excitement in his balls, in his belly, strained like an overwound spring: churning into a coil of not-quite pain. Tremors raced down his thighs and up the solid flat of his abdomen until he writhed all over. 

His hips tried to lift higher. Fell and rose to push his flesh harder, faster, within the Master’s encircling fingers. He didn’t care, anymore, about the ache of exhaustion. There was only hunger for more contact. More of the Master’s hand around him...sensation compressed so taut...wound so tight... 

And suddenly it snapped. 

Mairon gasped and moaned without restraint. Pleasure overwhelmed. His balls pulsed and his belly contracted: spasm followed spasm. 

He struggled to breathe. 

Waves of sheer, piercing ecstasy radiated out to the tips of his toes and fingers. It filled his throat and rose into his head...until he felt his mind melting, succumbing, submerged under each powerful wave. 

Until there was, for all too brief moments, nothing else. 

Back arched in a bow, Mairon’s heels dug into the featherbed. His lungs seized. A strangled exclamation exploded past gaping lips and his hips pumped in time to the Vala’s rhythmic caress. 

Then he fell limp, boneless, into Melkor’s waiting embrace, and dragged in great gulps of cool, dark air. 

“Mine at last. Mine alone.” Melkor growled and sank His teeth into the side of Mairon’s throat. A quick nip, a swift sting of sharp pain...a love bite. The shocking sensation faded as quickly as it had been administered, leaving his neck feeling just as tender and hypersensitive as the dis-engorging flesh between his legs. 

Melkor continued to stroke him. Now in slow, gentle glides. Each one made him twitch and shudder. 

Melkor’s massive shoulder shifted and Mairon’s head turned, his neck lolling, until cool breath blew directly on his face. Unerring lips nudged his own. Mairon opened to Melkor’s probing tongue. 

The Master licked his lower lip then slipped beyond. Exploring at will, leaving nothing untasted, until the Maia lay mostly unconscious. Unguarded and receptive to every invasive stroke of cool flesh within the heat of his mouth. 

Melkor rumbled against tingling flesh, “Delicious, my tiny, cunning Thû.” One last, irresistible invasion left Mairon reveling in Melkor’s unique flavor, ice and hot ash and unimaginable power, before the Master withdrew. 

Mairon drifted again. Fading in and out of consciousness as Melkor’s hand, between his legs, went still. Then the Master covered all of him. Cupped the whole assembly and tucked it against his body. 

His last moment of awareness gloried in Melkor’s unyielding, possessive embrace. 

“Sleep.” 

And Mairon, with a last deep sigh, obeyed. 

The Foundry Master’s Quarters 

Twenty little Umaiar rolled up the carpet and pulled down seared tapestries. They knocked pins from door hinges and let charred wooden panels fall, with resounding thuds, onto the bare stone floor. 

Carpenters came to haul away both tables, the burnt doors—Rat made sure to save the melted bronze lock mechanism and handles for Mairon’s recycle bin—and six crispy chairs. Several smiths, who’d arrived hoping to see their master, carried out the heavy carpet. They took the ruined tapestries, too; announcing that they’d burn the lot in the foundry furnaces. 

Then the Lessers scrubbed. How they scrubbed. They washed everything: walls, floor, and, after fetching a ladder, the ceiling. And then they scrubbed it all again. 

Bucket after bucket of green mineral water turned sooty black before they dumped them down the waste chute in Mairon’s pump room. Generous use of lye-and-tallow soap tainted the air with a bitter ammonia smell; it stung the nose and burned the eye. Little hands went wrinkly then blistered. 

They kept scrubbing. 

Rat left Vole in charge, much to his bewildered dismay, when she hurried away to requisition what furniture she could claim in a pinch. 

Chemical burn stink lessened once they washed all the soot off the walls. But no one could figure out why they couldn’t shift the irregular black circle on the ceiling even after a sixth scrub. It wouldn’t budge. 

Everyone took a turn but it defied all effort. 

The carpenters returned and measured the hole for new doors. Weavers came and looked at the walls, looked at the bedroom tapestries, and left discussing scenes and stories. 

Everyone sat down for a break and glared at the burnt ceiling. Sharing sips from a bucket of clean green water, the Lessers settled in for a good gripe. They complained about the earthquakes. Grumbled about cold gruel made with rancid fat and gristle. Cursed Superior Umaiar, abusing Lungorthin and Langon Herald with particular malice, then asked Vole what _his_ master was like. 

They’d heard rumors. 

Vole said Lord Mairon let them, he and Rat, have nice, crispy bread crusts but thought it prudent not to mention the sweeties. Or the meat. 

A good, long bitch made the Lesser Umaiar feel better before they glared at the blackened ceiling again. 

They suggested scrubbing the mark with salt, with vinegar, with pure lye...but Vole, after climbing the ladder and taking a good sniff, announced that he thought the stone, itself, might be burnt. 

How that was possible, he wasn’t sure, but when he rubbed his fingers over the black it didn’t come off. Short of chipping it away, there was nothing to be done. 

Tackling the floor again, for the last time, they were scrubbing themselves out the empty hole when Rat returned. She jerked her head at Vole and he slithered, backward on his knees, out into the hall and climbed to his feet beside her. He stretched out his sore back then gave her a tired smile. 

Chittering, Rat reported that temporary furnishing would soon arrive. Vole reported about the ceiling...and asked if she’d heard anything about their lord? 

Rat gave him an arch look, her black eyes gleaming like polished onyx, and shrugged. Then she grinned like a mad-rat. 

As their siblings scooted, bottoms first, into the hall, Rat gathered their sodden rags and dumped most of them into a spare bucket. The other Lessers sat down in the hallway and licked their wrinkly, blistered hands. Rat told them to rest and wait. 

Tossing two cleanish rags on the damp floor, she stepped on them and slip-walked across the receiving chamber. She let herself into Mairon’s bedroom. A few moments later, she emerged with the silver casket and, stepping onto the rags again, slip-walked back. 

Vole watched as she ordered their siblings to line up. Rat, very solemn, doled out sweeties. One cube of marchpane and one honeyed hazelnut apiece until the little casket was empty. The siblings left in line protested loudly. They turned angry eyes towards those with, obviously inspired to violence and theft, but Rat cheeped. 

Squatting on the hall floor, she closed the box lid and ran her hands over its beautiful filigree lid. Beneath her splayed fingers, a sudden ultraviolet glow raced through coiled silver wires. Inset gemstones twinkled. A deep, discordant Note vibrated at the same time. 

Rat flipped the lid open again. 

“AH!” exclaimed their amazed siblings when they saw the box full anew. 

Those who hadn’t had their reward danced and clapped. Open hands came out and Rat filled them. She turned to Vole and gave such a soft, sweet cheep that he squirmed and ducked his head. 

She held out a honeyed hazelnut, and he sidled over to take his reward. When he tucked the sweetie amid the folds of his simple brown tunic, making it disappear, she scowled at him. An adamant hand offered another. 

To make her happy, he ate this one. 

It was lovely-crunchy and Vole was surprised that Rat had noticed that he liked the hazelnuts much more than the soft marchpane. 

Footfalls echoed in the hallway. Loud ones, which meant Superiors. Rat flipped closed the casket, pushed up a few inches, and tucked the box under her skirts. She hunkered down over it. Their siblings gave wicked grins and scooted against the walls. 

When four large Umaiar appeared, two carried a new rolled carpet on their shoulders. The others carried folded tapestries. 

Rat, from her squat, scolded them that the floor was still wet and they couldn’t enter Lord Mairon’s suite until it dried. 

That got scowls and growls. 

Vole closed up beside Rat and hissed at the bigger Umaiar. An increasingly loud argument about putting down the heavy carpet echoed in the hall. The Lessers pulled into a tight group and added their shrill, little voices to the cacophony. 

They’d worked hard. No big, dirty boots would touch that floor 'til it was dry. 

The noisy squabble escalated. None of its participants heard long talons scritching against the hall ceiling. Two dark shapes, moving at speed, crossed above the argument and dropped to the floor behind Rat and Vole. 

They shifted quickly: wide black wings shriveled, finger bones shrunk, and humanoid arms formed. Backward knee joints popped forward as humanoid legs lengthened. Soft fur flattened. Leather and wool clothing slithered into existence. 

The only things that didn’t change were their sharp, pearlescent fangs. 

Rat shot a quick glance over her shoulder. Her ugly little face twisted into a disgusted grimace: bloodsuckers. Two of them, this time. Tall, clad in dark grey, with long, jet-black hair cascading around their pale, pale faces. 

She recognized the female as their late-night visitor and rolled her eyes. 

The other one spoke, “This is unseemly. You will disturb the lord,” in a stern, sibilant tone. 

“What is the meaning of this fracas?” Thuringwethil’s haughty demand rang out. 

Rat looked at them again. Her face smoothed over. This...this could be useful. She chittered. 

“Quite right.” the male nodded. 

“Indeed. You wait,” Thuringwethil snapped, “silently.” 

The Lesser Umaiar watched with smug little faces and nibbled their sweeties. 

The vampires did a curious thing. They flanked the empty door hole and stayed there. It was then Rat noticed that the male carried a short scabbard at his hip, and Thuringwethil had a little bow strapped to her upper arm. 

As Rat watched, she shimmied it down onto her forearm. She also untied the flap of a short quiver strapped to her thigh. It was full of wooden arrows. 

This impressed the little ones no end. They tucked themselves against the walls again and slowed their nibbling. Waiting to see if any more excitement would erupt. 

The Superior Umaiar with the rug and tapestries glared, shifting from foot to foot, but dare not defy or complain aloud. 

After a while, Rat grew heartily sick of staring at them. She had sewing to attend, and things to put back in their exact, proper places after last night’s tremors. Looking around for Vole, she found him propped against a wall. His head nodded, eyelids sinking, before both jerked back up. 

Rat clicked at him. She couldn’t move because of the sweets casket. It was Mairon’s, and, redolent as it was with Lord Melkor’s distinctive Will, no one else’s business. 

Vole dragged himself into the receiving room and tested the floor. He warbled that it was mostly dry. 

Rat chittered at the Superior siblings with the tapestries. Vole came back into the doorway and she clicked at him. He nodded. 

“I will do it.” said the vampire with the short sword. He glided across Mairon’s receiving chamber and positioned himself directly in front of the bedchamber doors. 

The lingering Lessers decided the fun was over. One of them chattered out a question. 

Vole, remembering last night, thanked them, as Lord Mairon had thanked the others, told them they’d done well, and reminded them to take the ladder back to where they’d found it before returning to the common rooms. 

Four of them collected the ladder and, singing an insulting song at the top of their little voice, all marched off down the corridor. 

Rat took the opportunity to grab up an unused scrubbing rag and, in the general hubbub, tossed it over the silver casket. Then she scooped up the precious bundle, and, pretending it was just wadded cloth, deposited in an empty bucket. 

As she lugged her burden by the Superiors who hung the tapestries, she tasked Vole to make sure the wall hangings were hung _properly—_ even if they were only temporary. Uneven hems, dangling at all angles above the floor, would drive their master to distraction. They _must_ be straight. 

Vole, completely solemn, nodded. 

The vampire guarding Mairon’s bedroom doors opened one for her. As she thumped by with the bucket, Rat stopped and chittered up at him. 

“To ensure no... unwelcome... visitor enters,” snottily. 

The Vermin exchanged dark, amused glances. Rat trilled at Vole and they both glanced at the burnt spot on the ceiling. 

“Late for what?” The bloodsucker asked. 

Thuringwethil, at the main doors, turned and followed the Vermin’s gaze. Frowning, she demanded, “What caused that?” 

Vole told them how the burn had gotten there. By the time he was done, Rat stood grinning in the partially open bedroom door. Big black eyes gleamed with pride and her tiny fangs ground gently together, creating a soft sort of purr. 

Vole, tired as he was, felt a rush of elation. He’d thought it would take much longer to win her around. Now she bruxed at him with her tail coiled around one ankle; its tip flicking lazily up and down. 

The bloodsuckers were silent. Disbelief tinged their faces but Vole cared not at all. Rat was pleased with him, and Vole knew she had their lord’s trust. 

Thuringwethil’s jet-black eyes darted between the Vermin and the burned ceiling. Her lips twisted, “Where is Lord Mairon?” In a tone that said she intended to debunk this outrageous lie. 

Rat cheeped. 

Vole warbled. 

Thuringwethil’s mouth dropped open. Shock washed across her luminescent features. 

The other vampire leaned back against the bedroom door and said, “Better and better.” under his breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Posted this chapter too soon. The mouse was trying to edit it in Drafts and hit the wrong button :/ These things happen and obviously it was meant to be.
> 
> Being a ruthless editor, I'm still fighting Chapter Nine into some sort of shape. (It wants to go in all sorts of directions that I'm not sure will fit in the story. Utumno, it seems, is full of wonderful digressions...or horrible digressions depending on your POV.)
> 
> So here's a little smutty scene and some Lesser Umaiar interaction.
> 
> A mouse hopes you are all still very well and staying as safe as you are able! That you are finding distractions to occupy yourselves and able to spend some time doing something you've always wanted to do but never quite found the time for; the mouse has been learning about bats, old murder cases, and, of course, the magical craft of writing.
> 
> All mousey love to you, my dears! Tiny hugs that tickle your cheeks with mousey whiskers!


	9. Introspections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter in which:
> 
> Kosomot realizes his bridges are burned and his course is set.
> 
> Mairon's clever mind pieces together what it can but he's dealing with Melkor, who's a complex entity.

Part Nine: Introspection

Submerged to his chin in good, hot, thick lava, Kosomot traced a claw-tip in the viscous surface. Its sharp point broke the blackened top and left a bright orange spiral in the craquelure. 

He’d delivered his axe head to the foundry and returned to empty tunnels. Deserted lava chambers; silent except for the soft plop of gently breaking bubbles. 

Where the others had gone, he could not imagine. He’d expected another confrontation with Lungorthin, not this full withdrawal. But there wasn’t a hoof fall or a rumble to be heard... 

The commander had decided he was glad of it and triumphantly stepped into a newly re-filled lava bath...but now he wondered if he’d thrown his lot with the wrong side. 

Lungorthin might be an intolerable pile of troll shite, but they were of a Rank and essence...the ñgwalaraukô kept to the fire pits and rarely sought the company of other Umaiar. 

Massive horns shook once, back and forth, as Kosomot considered that he was committed. No retreat, no retrenchment, and no room for doubt. 

Because the captain would make that route utter hell. 

And Kosomot already expected to be demoted when he faced Melkor in the throne room...he sat up. Mid-day, when the fuck was mid-day? Other than guard rotations, fire-demons had little use for linear time. 

He was puzzling over this when a dull sound intruded. It grew louder and he recognized the clunk of hoof on stone. Heavy percussions echoed in the chamber, up four levels through the collapsed ceilings above, and stopped in the tunnel. 

Kosomot leaned forward and his head turned. A dark shadow shed soot and ash just outside in the arched entrance. 

“ **Commander...Kosomot...** ” 

Kosomot relaxed back into his bubbling bath, “ **Sythmig**.” 

Clomping across the floor, Sythmig rumbled, “ **Make** **room** **.** ” 

Kosomot shifted and the other fire-demon stepped into the pool. As the lava level rose, the commander sat up straighter to keep it from covering the lower half of his face. 

Sythmig made an appreciative noise, like tectonic plates grinding, and stretched out. “ **Hmmm, good.** ” 

“ **Where are they?** ” 

“ **Licking Lungorthin’s hooves and expounding on why they deserve your place. They’re all in the courtyard clearing up last night’s mess. Langon** **Herald** **brought the Master’s orders after you left again. Lungorthin wouldn’t let us embed word,** ” which meant a vibration of thought left in the stone, “ **for you.** ” 

“ **He can suck my horns,** ” Kosomot growled. 

“ **Lungorthin** **says the Master intends to give the new fortress** **, when it** **’s** **habitable for soft flesh,** **to the Foundry Master** **.** **He says the Master** **wanted** **him to escort our new brother, but** **he** **refused.** ” 

Kosomot rumbled, “ **Aye. Lungorthin retorted that he commands the Master’s bodyguard and could not derelict his duty. Himself was not pleased.** ” 

“ **I’d do it.** ” 

Kosomot scraped his back against supporting stone, “ **As would I.** ” 

Sythmig propped his hooves on the far rim of their shared pool. “ **I’d be very interested in a new axe head...before we left.** ” 

Kosomot shot his brother Balrog a sidelong look. He scooped a thick droplet of lava onto one claw and sucked it into his fanged mouth. After a lengthy silence, “ **When’s mid-day**?” 

“ **No idea.** ” 

The commander breathed out a long plume of spark-laden smoke and growled, “ **Won’t do to be late. Best to be early,** ” Kosomot hauled himself from the bath. He left dollops of lava hardening on the granite floor as he clomped for the tunnel. 

Mairon drifted awake. He lay face down; propped on something soft. It smelled of cold ash, new ice, and male musk. 

Again, there was an almost perfect silence broken by his breath...only his...and, when he opened his eyes, pitch blackness. 

Physical sensations registered: his body hurt less than before but now his mouth tasted as if he’d chewed casting sand and old parchment: he was intensely thirsty. Beneath silk sheets, his skin felt...not raw but...tender...especially where... 

Mairon flipped over and sat up. 

One hand pressed between his legs. The other clenched a pillow redolent with Melkor’s scent. 

At first, Mairon doubted his memory. Had it actually happened? Evidence said it had: under his palm, chaffed skin felt fragile and tender. Below, his balls and sac were still hypersensitive and a little swollen. Some sort of dried residue, accompanied by a mild, itchy, irritation, flaked beneath his fingers. 

Yes, it had happened. 

Mairon frowned. Why it had happened, he could not...animals mated to make new animals...Ainur did not reproduce...to what purpose... 

But it had felt...oh, it had felt...and Melkor’s dark whisper had made it... 

A shiver wracked his whole body. 

Mairon told himself it was the frigid, lightless air...another shiver shook him head to toe. 

Prickling little bumps lifted over his shoulders, chest, and arms. Another body-shaking shiver. But his legs and hips were warm. Mairon found silk sheets and fur pooled in his lap. Smooth, soft, warm fur: he hauled it up his bare chest and flipped an end over his shoulder. 

The motion triggered a bloom of pale purple light. It spun into a graceful spiral and took on many other hues. Prismatic colors pulsed without pattern: occasionally they combined to make dim, white light. 

It illuminated an alcove where coiled crystal rods ran floor to ceiling. A dozen or more corkscrewed into an elaborate helix. It was breathtaking. 

Mairon realized that he lay in a bed much like the one in his quarters: enormous, with posts and drapes. Raised on a dais. Behind his back, there was a veritable wall of pillows and before him stretched a sea of silk sheets, quilted embroideries, and furs. 

He huddled into the pillows and tugged the bedclothes higher. 

This must be Melkor’s suite. 

An audacious impulse shot through the Maia. 

Curiosity burnt in him. Dare he get up and explore? This might be the only chance he ever got...surely the Master’s personal rooms would give him deep, and desperately desired, insights into the Vala’s mind... 

But then he recalled Drilm’s words verbatim, “Then He shoves you to the floor. You thank Him and leave.” 

Why hadn’t he, too, been shoved to the floor? Was he supposed to leave? 

Pre-existing data conflicted with current data. 

Melkor had left him here...alone...in bed... 

Mairon didn’t know what to do and he didn’t like, no, he _hated_ it. Uncertainty, confusion, discomposure: all anathema to his well-ordered mind and strictly regulated emotions. 

But it was warm under Melkor’s furs while the chamber itself was fucking arctic. No tapestries on the wall, no carpet on the floor. In fact, this massive bed seemed to be the only furniture in the room. 

_Very little to learn_ , Mairon thought. 

His stomach twisted, high up under his ribs, and gave a liquid grumble. Not only was he cold; he was ravenous. 

Three soft notes broke the silence. At a distance, orange and yellow flames blazed to life and Mairon turned to look. A huge, merry fire, low to the floor, crackled and popped in another room; its light defined the edges of a doorway. The sudden light also revealed a trio of opaque shadows. 

Three little shades bobbed into the chamber and stopped at the foot of the bed. Each gave off a distinct musical vibration; Mairon realized they were Umaiar. 

Very simple spirits, barely aware of their own consciousness, resounded with Melkor’s Discord. Circling, they joined their tones and projected a concept: 

_Food._

His stomach growled again. 

Bracing for the cold, Mairon shifted to the edge of the bed and pushed to his feet. The dais was naked stone and the moment his soles hit, an icy jolt juddered up his whole length. 

Mairon’s teeth chattered and tiny, prickly, goosebumps rose anew before he could clamp down on either bodily reaction. 

The tiny shadows darted around a bedpost and circled his head. 

A swathe of fabric coalesced above Mairon’s shoulders. Smelling of ice, ash, and that particular, ozone male musk, it cascaded around him. Folds of black velvet carried an unnatural warmth. Toasty, almost too hot, and so very welcome. 

Slipping his arms into the sleeves, he found they hung below his knees. The bottom hem pooled on the dais at his feet. It felt like wearing a tent. 

Obviously Melkor’s robe: coloured by costly black dye which must soak for long lengths to achieve this perfect darkness. Enveloped in overflowing velvet, he felt like a Lesser... a little spirit playing at being Superior. 

_Food._

The silent concept hovered in the air again. All three tiny spirits projected as one: _Eat._ They flitted toward the fireplace and circled before it. 

Mairon, soles of his feet flinching from arctic stone, stepped off the dais and minced into the next room. 

The fire illuminated a wrought-iron table and single, deep armchair much like the one in his bedroom. As the Maia approached, tiny points of light began to glow. A faux candelabra, made of six infinite rhodium loops and lit by a dozen embedded crystals, stood over a gold salver. 

There, under soft light, a full meal waited: bread, with actual butter, and meat—a whole fowl—and what looked like roasted root vegetables. A gigantic goblet filled with dark red wine stood beside the golden tray. 

_Eat,_ urged the tiny ones. 

Mairon sat on the edge of the armchair. Like the robe, the goblet, and the chair in his rooms, it was far too large. Cold feet came off the colder floor. 

He took a fussy moment to fold back Melkor’s sleeves, to avoid soiling them, before he reached for the goblet. 

Ruby red wine, icy cold, washed the gritty sensation from his mouth. Uncut wine, strong and fruity; Mairon resisted an impulse to gulp the goblet dry. 

He’d been drunk once. Once. 

Wishing there was water or tea, he settled for another sip of wine before he ripped into the bread. He dragged a chunk through the butter pot and closed his eyes as it passed his lips. Savoring the rich, creamy texture on fine-grained white bread. 

Lord’s Dark, it was delicious. 

There were utensils, an oversized fork and table dagger, but Mairon had no patience for them. Long fingers reached for the bird. 

Dark meat, wet and juicy...he thought it might be duck...but after the first bite didn’t much care. He made short work of the thing and left a pile of well-sucked bones on the platter. His flesh was obviously protein starved. 

Wishing there’d been more meat, Mairon sucked his fingers, too. Letting none of the rich, fatty flavor go to waste before he attacked the veg. Parsnip, carrot, potato, turnip all cut in chunks and obviously roasted with the poultry, he ate that platter empty before he finished both bread and butter. 

Probably too much butter, but he hadn’t seen any in weeks. At the end, he ran a fingertip around the pot and scooped out the very last of it before he again licked his fingers clean. 

Sitting back, he almost lay in the too-big armchair. Belly full, everything but his feet cozily warm, he looked around. 

This chamber, too, held a minimum of furniture. Besides the table and armchair, there was a clutter strewn desk. Sheets of parchment nearly obscured the writing surface. A haphazard pile of leather-bound notebooks occupied one corner. 

The floor was littered with more scraps of parchment, a taller pile of notebooks, and several dark shapes that might be working models. 

Gathering up voluminous fabric, Mairon rose and glided, on the balls of his frozen feet, across the room. The small shadows, twirling lazily around his head, accompanied him. 

_Bathe_ , they urged now, _bathe_. 

Mairon ignored them. 

The desk was an enormous thing with a tall back. Each pigeon-hole stuffed full with parchment scraps, old quills, half-melted blocks of seal wax, and various other little implements. There was a pounce pot, on its side and spilling powder, wedged into one little drawer and half the others had been crammed with too much detritus to sit home. 

The Maia’s fingers twitched and literally itched. Overwhelming impulse nearly choked him. His hands, of their own accord, drifted toward the desktop. 

_Bathe,_ the little shadows sang. 

Mairon jerked to a stop. It wouldn’t do. Of course, **it** **would not do** to lay his hands on Melkor’s things... but... how... _how_ did even a Vala work like this? 

_Bathe._

Mairon, with immense strength of will and nearly hyperventilating with the effort, wrenched his body around. _Don’t touch...don’t touch...don’t do it_ , silently to himself. 

The sudden movement caused a gust of air from one oversized sleeve, and a few sheets of parchment fluttered. The top two slipped to the floor. 

“...shit...” Mairon breathed. If he left them would Melkor notice? If he picked them up and put them back, would Melkor be able to tell they’d been moved? 

But—like the vampire Thuringwethil could not resist counting Rat’s seeds—Mairon could not ignore disorder of his own making. His whole Nature protested, grinding within his flesh, at the mere thought. 

He knelt to gather the parchment. And paused to get a better look at the working models on the dark floor. Clever little constructions of iron, wood, steel: one with a torsion spring and lever obviously meant to lob objects from its tiny basket; a crossbow, armed with a makeshift bolt, built on a wheeled base; and—Mairon inhaled sharply—a lamp. A miniature lamp on a tall pillar Much like Illuin and Omal... 

Supported by crucible steel girders, in crossed diagonal patterns, and heavily reinforced with redundancies. A hollow, faceted crystal on top. Evenly spaced vents, lined with more steel, would allow heat to escape. A magnificent little thing. Just as elegant and infinitely stronger than the design conceived by Aulë. 

Mairon stretched out a delicate fingertip and touched the crystal top. It was colder than ice but solid and perfectly clear. The Maia realized it was the same artificial crystal as the glow globes in his quarters, the multi-coloured rods in Melkor’s bedroom, and the beads in the faux candelabra. 

He stroked one faceted edge. 

This is what Melkor had meant.

And Aulë had misunderstood. Perhaps willfully, perhaps through sheer ignorance that such a thing could be.

Mairon pulled his hand back and, letting the parchment drift back to the floor, wrapped his arms around his torso. Barely registering the chill seeping up from the bare stone, Mairon frowned as he remembered _that_ whole debacle. 

The other Valar had been less-than-enthusiastic about Manwë’s proposal to win peace by asking Melkor to participate in The Great Project. Oromë, Ulmo, and Yavanna had been the hardest of heart, the most openly skeptical, but not in Lord Manwë’s presence. 

Which Mairon had gleaned from Eonwë’s idle chatter. 

What part had he, himself, played in destroying possible reconciliation? Reporting to Melkor snatches of overheard conversation— _arguments—_ between the Great Smith and the Green Mother...as the Lady urged her husband to be extra wary, not to trust, to reject whatever their eldest brother proposed... 

The other Maiar had been aflurry with whispers and gossip: full of what their own Vala or Valie said in privacy to their Households. Mairon had gathered, collated, and reported...as Melkor had asked him to do... 

So much mistrust and hostility poured into a mind all-too used to rejection... hardened by doubt... isolated... 

Melkor hadn’t meant ice. He’d meant this, but there was no word for it. He’d used the term ice-crystal. The Valar thought He’d meant actual ice and scorned Him. 

Melkor’s pride would not stoop to explanation. 

The Breach had been final. Melkor had abandoned Almaren and turned all His attention to delving Utumno. 

Mairon bowed his head. All of it came crashing down on him at once. Uncertainty as to why Melkor sought him, made facsimiles of him, for a physical act that made no sense, these dark, cold rooms lacking all but the most basic furniture, the little shadows without personality, the model lamp that would never be built... 

_Both of us, apart,_ Mairon groped for understanding, _alone, unfulfilled._

_A Vala needs Service and a Maia needs to Serve..._

Mairon inhaled hard. 

He grabbed up the sheets of parchment which had started this whole chain of thought and rose to his feet. As he went to lay them back on the desk, he realized their absence had triggered a change. 

A four-tiered board hovered between planes, phasing into matter then back into energy as if unsure whether it should materialize or not. 

As if it sensed Mairon’s gaze, it chose to become solid. Parchment crinkled flat beneath it and a quill, in a dried ink bowl, crunched under the sudden weight. 

A game board, of a sort, took up most of the blotter. Innumerable little black pebbles shifted and moved, as if they were alive, on the wide bottom level. They skirted one another or bashed together in constant motion. 

One the second level, Mairon recognized several little statues of carved black gemstones. Those horns and axes, these must be the Balrogath. One stood by itself at one quarter of the board. Another stood nearby, but the others were all gathered in the opposite corner. 

There was another shining black figure, this one chased with white gold detail, on the third level. It was tipped on its face. A second piece occupied the same tier: an emerald in the shape of a humanoid male. With a tall pike capped by silver double blades...that was surely Langon Herald. It paced its side of the board. 

The upper tier was empty. Smooth blue-grey marble almost luminescent in what dim light carried from both the fire and the rhodium mock-candelabra. 

As Mairon watched, two tiny gold hands appeared. They gripped the far edge of the board. A small statuette, naked and made of solid gold, pulled itself to waist height, got a foot up, and climbed onto the marble. Beautifully smooth and graceful, for all it was merely metal. 

Tucking its hands behind its back, it marched forward and stopped just at the edge. For several moments, it stood there staring at him with eyes made of inset yellow sapphires. Spun ruby threads moved like real hair when it tipped its head first up at him then to one side. 

Perfect little hands untucked and came forward. They swept over a perfect little chest. A thick, silver chain shimmered into existence around its shoulders. 

It consisted of badges: wolves heads, bat heads, more arcane symbols denoting sorcery, wisdom, authority, all linked in a symmetrical pattern. In the center hung a yellow sapphire pendant with a tiny, crescent pupil right in the stone’s heart. 

The statue lifted the pendant, displaying it in a golden palm, as if showing it to Mairon, most pointedly. 

It was a beautiful Chain of Office. Twice as many gemstones as Langon’s. Much larger, obviously denoting Superior Rank. 

But even as he watched, the silver livery collar faded. The figure spread its arms wide, gesturing at the empty board around it, then turned both hands, palms upward, to him. 

_For what do you wait?_

Then it did a very strange thing. It ran both small hands, slow and sensual, over its chest, down its belly, and over long, muscular thighs. The tiny head tipped back. Mairon could almost hear it purr. 

As one, statuette and Maia shuddered. 

A memory of physical pleasure, of overpowering sensual excitement, tremored through Mairon’s nerves and settled deep in his middle. 

Eyes like yellow sapphire met eyes made of yellow sapphires. The statue smiled. Then it tucked its hands behind its back and occupied the center of the top tier as if it owned the space: poised and proud in the direct center. 

On the third tier, the Balrog that stood in its own quarter suddenly began to move. The black diamond leapt onto the tier above. The other one, the one detailed with white gold, pushed up and clomped toward the invader on itty-bitty hooves. Its black axe came out but it was too slow. 

Quick as can be, the black diamond in play moved, in long leaps, between the emerald Langon Herald and the charging piece Mairon thought must represent Lungorthin, Captain of the Guard. 

It raced across the marble board. 

The gold statuette on the top tier strode to the edge and, sinking to one knee, offered its hand. 

The other piece stretched tall and grabbed it. 

Kosomot, Mairon realized, the black diamond was Kosomot making a bold move. 

And the figure that was him pulled fast and hard. Now the top level had two pieces and they calmly divided the board between them. Each occupied half. 

Gold-and-ruby-Mairon dipped his head to black-diamond-Kosomot. The representative Balrog lifted his axe in salute. Both resumed their resting positions and fell still. 

Below, the figure edged with white gold, too, ceased to chase and, with a clunk, toppled over. 

Mairon-of-flesh-and-bone breathed out, “I see,” 

_Bathe,_ sang the absent and opaque shadows once more but now they added _, most beloved, bathe._

“Show me.” 

Spinning in rapturous dance, the trio of shades led him back into the bedroom and across to a large pump room. There waited an exact replica of his large, copper bathtub. It was full. 

_Bathe._

As he approached, a ripple spread through pale green water. The surface bubbled and steam rose. When he dipped in a hand, it was too hot. 

Mairon looked around. Unlike the other rooms, this one had personality. Mosaic tiles covered most of the walls and floor. Fractals in many shades, strong with amber and gold, radiated out in ever more complex patterns. 

A standing mercury glass took up an entire corner. Mairon approached and saw a clear reflection of himself—much better than the bronze oval mirror in his bedroom—and realized how ridiculous he looked in Melkor’s huge black robe. 

But he pulled it tighter around his chest. Ran one sensual hand over the velvet at one hip and thigh and, closing his eyes, imagined it was the Vala’s hand for a spare moment. 

Too small. Too difficult a stretch of fancy. 

Mairon’s eyes popped back open. He blinked sharply and stepped closer to the mirror...what had happened to his hair? 

The point in the center of his forehead was gone, as were the temporal peaks on either side of his cheekbones. Nothing remained but some frizzy fuzz. 

It changed the whole look of his face, “No,” he didn’t like it, “not ’t’all.” 

Touching that fragile fuzz, he remembered leaning over the crucible and watching long copper strands drift down. 

He looked an absolute idiot...and Melkor had still...but the complete absence of light...Melkor had been behind him... 

“You look a fool,” Mairon growled at his reflection. 

_Bathe,_ the little spirits urged again. 

“Is there a brush, or comb, I might use?” He asked. 

_Bathe._

Mairon, at that moment, longed for Rat. 

His hair desperately needed a brush. Unbraided while he slept, long tresses were tangled and snarled. The three little shades, those abstracts of naught, spiraled together above the cooling tub. 

One couldn’t sit and think while they brushed one’s hair...one couldn’t test an idea...glean a bit of knowledge...make a clever or dark little joke...they were nothing. 

And they certainly weren’t going to scrub his back, comb heated oil through his freshly washed hair, or buff the callouses off his heels after a good soak. 

Mairon climbed into the cooling bath and slid down to his chin. There was a bowl of sand-soap and a cloth on the table beside the tub but he soaked a while before reaching for them. 

He stood to wash...and was surprised by how sensitive his skin felt first to the soap suds and then to the cloth. A usually brisk routine slowed. Especially when he washed between his legs...and remembered... 

Sensual strokes tried to imitate the Master’s touch but failed even when he put aside the cloth and used his own fingers. It didn’t feel the same. It stimulated, true, but it...lacked... 

He knew what his hand was doing; there was no independent factor. The whole experiment felt flat. Unsatisfying. 

Failure. 

When he washed his hair, little threads of crispy fuzz came off in his fingers. Very annoying. Scooting down, he submerged completely to rinse. 

Mairon stepped out of the tub. Again, the oversized black robe settled around his shoulders. And again, he was grateful for the unnatural warmth it generated. 

Mairon padded back to the blazing hearth. He crouched before the flames and used his fingers to comb long hair out across his shoulders. Using one sleeve, he blotted excess water and thought it would dry an absolute mess. 

The simple shadows stayed with him. He asked if the Master had left further instructions but there was no response. 

They were an absence, rather than a presence. 

This was no way for a Vala to exist: surrounded by stark isolation and attended by little nothings. What a travesty. 

Melkor Firstborn deserved far better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, posted too soon. Unfortunately, a mouse's Shelter-in-Place experience is decorated with two extroverts who have little understanding of the creative process. Interruptions abounding.
> 
> Why, mouse, is Melkor the only one speaking in archaic forms? A question no one has asked but a mouse feels compelled to explain:
> 
> Melkor is literally talking "down". The Master of a Household and Domain using the familiar mode to address inferiors. He'd thou and thee Manwe, though probably not Eru, in conversation. Yes, Melkor is THAT arrogant bastard.
> 
> So have some fun looking at Melkor's personal quarters and see if Mairon's revelations strike the right notes.
> 
> Again, a mouse hopes you are safe and secure, not too house-crazy, and finding some good, weird stuff for amusement!
> 
> Much love!
> 
> <3~~~


End file.
